It's Just the Wind
by SupernaturalFanPerson
Summary: Dean thought it had all ended thirteen years ago. He thought he'd never have to see his little brother so sad, so pained... But when the Winchesters investigate what's supposed to be a simple salt and burn in the familiar town of Broken Ridge, the ghost of the long-dead man who had caused so much agony might have more than just a revisit of the brothers' memories up his sleeves..
1. Chapter 1

**So this idea's been floating around in my head for a while now and I figured if I didn't act upon it soon I never would.**

**This story takes place first in season 3. I haven't picked an exact episode for it to be placed after, but if it's necessary for plot reasons I'll definitely say so.**

**In the flashbacks Sam is 11 and Dean just turned 16, so the weather is still very wintery and snowy and cinnamon-y. At least, that's my version of winter.**

**I wonder if anyone actually reads this. **

**If they do, they probably think I'm super annoying.**

**Anyway, there will most definitely be hurtSam and Dean later on.**

**Got your attention now, didn't I?**

**I'm just messin' with you. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The bed was empty when Sam woke up, sheets mussed and turned back, but no big brother present.

He rubbed his eyes with stiff fingers as he sat up, closing the laptop and with it, the latest pages on hellhounds or immortality or deals or exorcisms or whatever the hell he had googled at midnight last night.

He didn't remember anything past the second beer and the third tired reprimand from Dean, spoken softer than before.

Because Dean had been marking off days just as Sam had. And Sam knew Dean had been watching him as he fell asleep with musty old books open more often every day.

"Glad you caught an hour or two." Dean spoke suddenly. He held a cup of coffee in each hand, raising his eyebrows when his voice startled Sam, who hadn't realized Dean was in the room at all, let alone leaning on the bathroom doorframe watching him the past minute and a half.

The mug was set in front of him and Sam wrapped his hands around it, letting the warmth seep into his palms.

"But seriously, man, if you don't get a couple more hours of shut eye without imprinting that keyboard on your face, I'm going to haunt your ass."

Dean meant it lightly. He didn't- or pretended not to- notice Sam flinch at the memory of the last time the hunter had attempted that line.

Dean was dying then too. It was a strange parallel, thinking of back then. Shortly after Jess and everything.

When _Dad_ was alive...

Being with Dean was like riding a bike. They melded instantly, and the Rawhead had tested everything they had patched together.

It was happening all over again. Dean was just a little less pale.

"I found a case." He spoke up when it seemed Sam was content to just staring at the cup Dean had handed him.

"We're busy, Dean. We don't have time for a case."

Dean sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "I need you to take your mind off of this. Come on, Sam, Bobby called. It's just a salt 'n burn. We'll be in and out in a week, tops."

"Your wish is my command," Sam grumbled, but packed his things, trying to ignore the smirk on Dean's face.

It was pitch black by the time they reached Bobby's, Sam at the wheel. Dean was dead asleep— no, fast asleep, Sam corrected himself quickly— in the passenger seat, facing the window, John's journal clutched in his hands with an iron grip.

Sam doubted he'd been looking something up. It was probably half for the comfort of having his father's most personal possession close by, and half so Sam didn't get to see it.

Sam, who had started looking through the first part of the journal more and more. It was the heartfelt half of the book— full of scrawled and almost illegible documentations of events.

_Sam's three today. Dean seemed happier about the event than his brother. Kept smiling and bouncing around. Got Sammy his own copy of Green Eggs and Ham. One of his favorites. Dean's been reading it non-stop now. Had to-_

That's when Dean had snatched it out of his hands, claiming "it wasn't time to get sappy yet." Sam had growled beneath his breath and hadn't gotten it back since.

Dean had stuffed it in his jacket pocket, slept with it under his pillow, brought it in the bathroom. As if, by some miracle, stopping Sam from reminiscing of simpler, more innocent times, the need to save him would disappear.

A knock on the window jarred him into reality. Bobby Singer, in full gruffness and with a hat resting confidently on his head, bent down to level of the car.

The click of the passenger door announced Dean's consciousness and Sam glanced over to see the journal still firmly in his hand. No surprise there.

"Plannin' on unbuckling, Sam?" Bobby opened the door and Sam hastily climbed out, stretching his legs as he walked to the trunk to help Dean with their stuff.

"Thanks for letting us crash for the night," Sam said as he slung his duffel over his shoulder. Dean did the same, falling into step beside him, their strides falling into sync.

Sam managed a smile at that. They never tried to match each other step-for-step. He guessed it'd become a habit at some point, no matter who was taller, or who had longer legs, it felt comfortable. One of the few things Sam could do the same as his older brother. They even stopped walking simultaneously as they emerged into Bobby's maze of books he called the main room.

"So what're we dealing with here, Bobby?" Dean questioned, sliding a finger along a particularly old and unused book, rubbing the dust between his forefinger and thumb.

"It's just a ghost problem. Believe it or not, you're the closest available hunters so..." His voice trailed off, not eager to state the reason why all the hunters were so busy.

_Because we let hundreds of demons out of Hell._

_Because I let hundreds of demons out of Hell_. Sam shuddered. He'd almost lost Dean too many times to count.

Dean whistled. They'd driven all day to get here and they still had a bit of a drive tomorrow. "Woulda done it myself, but, uh..." He lowered his voice again, this time his gaze leading to a stack of books. Dean nodded in assumption that Bobby must be working another case.

Sam met the older hunter's eyes and nodded with even more understanding. He'd practically begged the man to look through his old books, for anything on hellhounds or Lillith.

But Bobby had insisted begging wasn't necessary. He'd already begun weeks ago.

Now the father figure looked him over, narrowing his eyes at the bags under Sam's and the way he stifled yet another yawn and checked his watch again.

"The man's name was Julius Pater," Bobby spoke casually, beginning to detail them. Both boys stiffened, Sam's hand ghosting over his heart.

Dean shook his head at Sam, already seeing the way his brother was looking at him.

_It's history, Sam._ His eyes told him. _He can't hurt you anymore. Or me. Can't hurt us._

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Dean placed a gentle hand on Sam's forehead, his little brother unconsciously leaning into the touch as he slept on.

"Fever's broke." Dean guessed in a whisper, an experienced Big Brother guess, as he turned to their father. "Doesn't mean he isn't still sweating like a pig." Sam had one leg tucked under the covers, the other splayed out with the pants leg shoved up, as if he couldn't decide whether he was hot or cold.

"Good." John Winchester closed the laptop. It had been a week since Sam had first gotten the sniffles. Call it genetic or call it dumb Winchester luck, but Sam drew the short stick when it came to his immune system. Once Dean had finally coaxed a true, yet reluctant, health report out of the eleven-year-old, Sam laid off the act. He'd been on bed rest ever since. "Jim and Caleb could really use backup and I'm all they've got." John explained.

Dean laid next to Sam on the bed, placing a hand around his shoulder and rubbing Sam's arm with his thumb. "Where?"

"Not far. Just over the line into Nebraska."

Dean nodded solemnly, taking a moment to eye Sam. "You sure?" He asked. Sam was just getting better, but there was still the aftermath to be wary of, even if it seemed he was doing good. He liked to scare Dean when he was sick.

"I'm sure, Dean. He'll be fine. You wouldn't allow otherwise." He added, showing an honest smile, something that hadn't come from the oldest hunter lately. It washed over Dean with a sense of calm and he couldn't help but agree.

"You know it. We'll be fine." He assured, squeezing Sam's shoulder.

"I left cash on the kitchen counter, Sam's meds are in there too, and don't forget, Dean, Sammy's sick, you're not. Daily workout, the usual, got it? Keep in touch."

"Yes, sir." Dean answered obediently.

John walked over to his youngest and placed a hand on his head like Dean had moments before. He sighed in relief as he came to the same conclusion as his eldest.

"Sammy?" Sam's eyes fluttered as John ran a callused hand through his hair, tracing a path to the nape of his neck with the gruff affection that seeped through the drill sergeant when his boys weren't one hundred percent. The boy savored the moment, one that had occurred less and less frequently as he entered his tweens. Finally, Sam opened his eyes half way and then completely, blinking slowly and sitting up. Dean adjusted his arm, but didn't remove it. Neither complained.

"Dad?"

"Hey, buddy. I've got to go. Jim and Caleb need help... But Dean's gotcha, okay?" Sam nodded, but it was obvious the next step was to sleep off the remainder of the sickness and he soon drifted off again, which was just fine, as Dean managed to shrug out from under him and follow John out to his room.

"There's plenty of food, you shouldn't need to go grab anything. I've got days of drugs for Sam, but call if you have any problems of course."

Dean nodded again, anxious to return to his brother. John must have known about this hunt earlier. His duffel was packed and waiting by his bed. He slung it over his shoulder and brushed past Dean.

"You have keys?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lock the door behind me."

"Yes, sir."

"And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"The most important rule?"

Dean looked his father right in the eyes, his voice sincere. "Watch out for Sammy."

John clapped him on the back and left, though Dean could tell by his shadow that he lingered by the doorstep until he was sure he heard the click of the lock.

"Dean?" The sixteen-year-old turned at the sound. He couldn't help but smile at a sleepy Sam.

"Yeah?"

Sam swayed slightly, half asleep. He rubbed his eyes but what he really should have done was run a hand through his hair. It stuck up in every direction and, to add to the rumpled effect, his sweatpants were still lopsided, one showing his skinny shin, the other one falling under his foot. "I want milk."

Dean chuckled. "Okay." He grabbed a glass but thought twice, instead swapping it for one of the plastic ones. "How you feeling?" He asked as he opened the fridge.

"Better." Sam replied after a moment's hesitation.

"Took too long to answer there, Sammy Boy. What's up?" He kicked the refrigerator door shut behind him as he poured the liquid out, just over halfway.

"I just still get a little dizzy when I stand up is all." Sam shrugged to italicize the it's-no-big-deal factor. No need to get Dean's overprotective panties in a twist. Sam sighed and swept his bangs aside.

Dean put the cup in Sam's hand and stuck a straw in. "Considering how little you've gotten out of bed lately, that's to be expected."

Sam shuffled over to the couch and sat down, warming his bare feet against the fire. For once, their father had gotten a nice place for them. It was quiet, and surrounded by woods, the nearest neighbors a good distance away, allowing for target practice without anonymous tips to the police about the sounds of gunshots.

Dean joined his brother on the couch, pulling a blanket over both of them. "Feel crappy." Sam admitted, the need for support from his brother winning out over his natural "I'm fine" defense now that Dad was gone. He leaned against Dean and stared at the fire. Dean ruffled his little brother's hair. "I know, I know. But no training for a few days, at least till Dad gets back, and by then you'll be picking' fights with him like it's nothing."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's not my fault he doesn't care about education."

"It's not my fault you two can fight over who gets which half of a sandwich."

Sam shouldered the teen gently. "Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean replied affectionately.

For the next couple hours they stayed on the couch and stared into the fire, talking about everything ("Dean, where do ghost go?" "We don't really know, Sammy.") and nothing ("We should get a dog." "No.") until Dean's stomach began grumbling.

Sam hadn't spoken in a few minutes, and by the way his breaths came out evenly it was obvious he had fallen asleep again. Dean lifted him off his lap and back against the arm of the couch, folding his half of the blanket back over Sam, earning a mumble and nothing more than a re-position as the boy curled up into the couch.

Dean hummed to himself as he popped one of the last pieces of pizza into the microwave, punching enough buttons to get the thing rotating. Suddenly, the entire house grew black.

"Damn." Dean swore, at least pleased to find Sam still asleep. Of course the outlet box was outside, though. It was freakin' cold out there, too. Dean sucked it up and grabbed a flashlight from his duffel in the bedroom, stopping to grab Sam's Swiss Army knife.

"Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, huh, little brother?" Dean whispered as he set it on the end table mere inches from Sam's limp, outstretched hand. On second thought, he placed his cell right beside it, just in case Sam woke up and panicked or something. It sounded silly, but when Sam was sick, Dean was prepared for anything and everything little brothers had to offer.

He shoved on his boots and trudged out into the snow, rounding the side of the house. The wind was strong, and he squinted his eyes as flurries stung his face.

The outlet panel was open. "Damn wind." Dean muttered. He flipped the switches back on and closed the panel tightly.

When he finally made it back into the warmth, Sam was sitting up and watching him intently.

"Dean!" He sounded relieved to see his brother.

"Calm down, Samantha, I was outside for five minutes." Sam scoffed and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Glad to see the lights are on." Dean said when he got nothing but an evil eye from his brother for the slight teasing.

"They were out?"

"Yeah, man. No worries. Big bro got it covered." He winked, resetting the microwave to heat his pizza. "You hungry?"

Sam shook his head and paled at the thought. Food was the last thing he wanted to think about and as Dean sunk his teeth into the slice, ripping some of the cheese off and attempting to slurp it into his mouth, he breathed slowly to keep himself from throwing up.

He hadn't been sick in two days now, and Dean had _promised_ to take him out once he was certain Sam wouldn't puke all over the Impala's upholstery, a gift from Dad on his sixteenth birthday.

But Sam was pretty close to breaking point. And Dean, being Dean, noticed. "Sammy?"

Sam focused on breathing. Don't throw up. Don't throw up, he chanted. Dean put a hand on his shoulder and he jumped.

"Sam?" Dean repeated. He was inches from Sam's face worriedly, but backed up when he realized the situation at hand. "You gonna spew, kiddo?"

His breath smelled of pizza and it drove Sam over the edge. He nodded vigorously and Dean grabbed the trash can just in time for Sam to empty the contents of his stomach into it.

"Sorry, Dean." He groaned as he jarred back down for another round. "But that pizza was disgusting."

"Mental note, no more Italian..." Dean mumbled, trying to sweep his brother's long hair out of the way as much as possible with his free hand.

Finally, Sam had white-knuckled through enough dry heaving to make Dean want to retch himself, and the sixteen year old rubbed his back encouragingly as he finally sat back and loosened his grip on the container.

"So not fun, man." Sam moaned. "I hate being sick."

"So does everyone, little dude. But I can't give you any of the good stuff for another three and a half hours so..." His voice trailed off as Sam flew into a coughing fit.

Milk was at his lips and Sam clutched the glass, sipping to rid himself of the racking coughs long enough to take a deep breath.

"Where'd that come from?" Dean asked out loud. "Look, I can't give you anything the doc prescribed, but maybe I could get some cough medicine in you. I'll call Dad."

Sam smiled sleepily like it was the best idea he'd ever heard. "Yeah... Call him." He mumbled.

Dean reached over his tired brother to the end table where he knew he'd placed his phone. "Where'd you put my phone?" He asked.

Sam stared at him from his bundle of blankets. "Huh?"

"My phone. I went outside, so I set it here next to..."

"Next to what?" Sam nudged Dean out of his bewildered expression. "Next to what?"

"The knife?"

Now Sam was watching him worriedly. "Dean. There was _no_ knife on the end table. Or your phone."

Dean unraveled himself from the quilt and his brother, kneeling to check under the couch. There was no sign of either missing thing under any of the furniture.

Sam hit Dean's back gently with his hand. "Get up and use the landline, stupid."

Dean stuck his tongue out halfheartedly as he walked to the kitchen.

Sam watched him dial John's number and waited, but Dean stared at the phone like it had just told him Zeppelin was terrible.

"The phone's not working." He said slowly. Setting it down on the table, he walked past Sam and into their bedroom.

"Where do you keep yours!" He shouted across the house.

"It should be with the charger in the wall!" Sam replied. "It was low so I plugged it in last night!" He took a deep gulp of his milkto sooth his burning throat, regretting the yelling.

Dean cleared his throat and Sam looked up to see him in the hallway with wires in his hand. "Dean?" He asked in confusion.

"Where's your phone? I found the charger." He held up the bundle.

Sam opened his mouth to reply when a knock on the door stilled both of them. Dean put up a hand and Sam sat back attentively as the sixteen-year-old crept towards the large double doors of the cabin. There was no peephole, and Dean pulled the gun out of the back of his pants before grabbing the handle.

"Hello?" He asked. The house was silent. His grip on the handgun tightened and he swung the door open enough to poke his head out.

Sam had flung the blankets off his legs and was shuffling towards his brother. "Is anyone out there?" He whispered. Dean shook his head.

He opened the door and made to step out. "No!" Sam cried, taking a fistful of Dean's jacket in his hand to hold him back. "You can't go out there!"

Dean gently pried Sam's fingers off and looked him in the eyes. "I'll be fine. I'm sure it was nothing, okay?" Sam nodded and as Dean pulled away again he raced unsteadily to their room and pulled on boots.

"I'm coming, too." He added defiantly. Dean shook his head. "You're sick."

"You're stupid." Sam countered lamely. The older boy rolled his eyes. "Good one."

"_Please_?"

Dean told himself not to make eye contact. He could hear in Sam's voice exactly what the kid was up to. "Look, Sam," Dammit. He cursed as his eyes met his brother's. Sam looked so innocent, his hair mussed up, his tired eyes open surprisingly wide... And he was giving Dean the puppy look. "Come on, Sam. That doesn't work on me anymore!" Dean didn't sound very confident. And Sam didn't reply. But he also didn't stop looking up at Dean with watery eyes.

"Fine, but only because it's just a minute, you're burning up as it is, and you're going to promise to relax when we get back inside." He raised his eyebrows as if daring the boy to argue, but Sam just nodded seriously.

Sam grabbed the pocket of Dean's jacket and followed him out. The cold air hit him suddenly and he sucked in a breath, seeing Dean glance at him worriedly. He looked straight on as if nothing had happened and Dean seemed to let it go.

They trudged through the snow down the long driveway and to the Impala waiting at the bottom. It had been too hard to drive the old car up the steep road and Dean wasn't even going to risk it with his baby.

Sam and Dean both noticed at the same time.

"Dean?"

"What the _hell_?"

"Who..."

"And the _tires_!"

"Who could... _Do_ this..." Sam breathed.

Covered in a white blanket making the stark black of the car almost invisible, the windows were smashed and the tired slashed completely.

"Dean?" Sam suddenly looked up at his brother with scared eyes. "Dean, who could do this? I thought we were alone!" Dean ran around to the trunk, Sam quickly on his heels. "Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted, slamming his hand on the edge of the Impala. He was staring down at an empty trunk. No guns, no knives, no weapons.

"Dean?" The sixteen-year-old seemed to remember that he wasn't alone and he had a little- sick- brother to take care of. "Let's go, Sammy. Inside. Now!" He turned Sam towards the house and they ran. Sam froze at the open door and Dean tried to push him inside.

"Come on, Sam! What're you waiting for?"

His eyes were wide as he turned to face his older brother, trying to force the words out. "Dean... When we walked out... I _closed_ the door behind me." Dean's eyes mirrored his brother's. That was dangerously mysterious and he debated whether or not they should go in at all. But a glance back towards the car told him all he needed to know.

"Get inside, Sam!" Dean cried.

"But-" The eleven-year-old protested.

"Now!" Dean's commanding voice, so much like their father's, and most likely on purpose, jerked him into action and Dean followed him in, locking the door behind himself.

"The hell, Dean?" Sam couldn't help himself. "Why was the door open?" He whispered. He was smart, he knew why, but he wanted Dean's reassurance that it wasn't what he thought.

"It's okay Sam, whoever it was, they can't be in here anymore." He was already pushing the china cabinet in front of the door.

"How can you be so sure?" Sam urged. His hands were shaking, but from fever or fright, Dean wasn't sure.

He swallowed. "Be_cause_, Sammy." He peeked out the window again. "He's standing in the driveway."

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**What do you think? Should I continue? Drop a review and let me know! I try to respond to all of them! Updates for this story or As the Years Go By won't be as fast as before due to school and this social thing I think they're calling "life" now. Anyway, thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow! Thanks for a great response to my first chapter! I am genuinely ecstatic to hear that I even managed to creep a fw of you out. I just watched _The Strangers _so my Creepers In The House skills are much greater than previously. **

**I just responded to last chapter's reviews, but a special thanks to anonymous reviewers I couldn't respond to :)**

**Oh, also, to Patricia 3: I really appreciated everything you said, and I'm really glad you enjoyed it!**

**You guys rock.**

**And I understand this chapter is shorter, but the next one's longer. I promise.**

**Anyway, enough rambling, without further ado...**

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**Last chapter: **

_"It's okay Sam, whoever it was, they can't be in here anymore." He was already pushing the china cabinet in front of the door._

_"How can you be so sure?" Sam urged. His hands were shaking, but from fever or fright, Dean wasn't sure._

_He swallowed. "Because, Sammy." He peeked out the window again. "He's standing in the driveway."_

"W-what?" Sam stuttered. His breath hitched and he clutched Dean's arm.

Dean took a hand off the drawer and placed it around Sam's neck. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. We'll be fine, okay?" His green eyes stated into Sam's with honesty and determination.

And Sam nodded because it was _Dean_, and Dean would never let anything happen to him, even if, and especially if, someone held a gun to the older boy's head. You don't threaten Dean Winchester when his brother's around.

"Okay, Sam. Here's what's gonna happen." Dean set his hands on Sam's shoulders seriously, looking him in the eye and remaining much calmer than the shaking kid opposite him. "We're going to go in the bedroom. I have my gun in there. Once we get a game plan-" A harsh _bang_sounded and they both jumped at the sound, because though Dean could see the masked figure from his position, wanting eyes on the creep, the sound came from behind the house.

"Dean?"

Dean took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm, for Sam's sake. "Let's go Sam. To the bedroom."

"But Dean, the sound-"

"Don't worry about it." Sam let out a bitter laugh at that. Don't worry about it? He was scared. But big brother's got it covered, right? _Just head to the bedroom and don't puke._

Dean laid a protective arm around Sam and followed him into the room. The duffel was still open from when Dean had come searching for his phone. Before...

Dean snapped his fingers. "Sam! Need your focus, man. You feelin' alright?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, 'course. Dean. What're we gonna do? There's someone out front _and_out back-"

"We'll be _fine_. Now where's my gun?" He crawled under the bed, praying there was nothing there but dust bunnies. He yanked up the floorboard and grabbed the .45, not his favorite, but very well might be after saving his and Sam's lives.

"Ow!"

Dean cussed as he banged his head sliding back out from under the bed and Sam's worried face popped into his vision.

"What's wrong?"

"_No_thing, Sam."

"Okay." There was a pause as Sam tried to gather his thoughts. "Dean?"

"What?"

"How are we getting out of here?" Sam practically whispered. Dean didn't answer, focusing on checking how many bullets he had. Five. Of course the damn intruders had taken his ammo stash too. These rounds were all he had to work with.

Suddenly, Sam was up and racing for the connecting bathroom. He fell to his knees before the toilet. Dean followed with the gun in hand but knelt at his brother's side when he saw the way the eleven-year-old was white-knuckling the sides of the seat, breathing heavily, and Dean knew, because Dean always knew, Sam was trying not to throw up.

"Don't fight it, Sam." He had always been this way. Would rather pass out in exhaustion than actually _puke_. "We don't-" He stopped himself but Sam took the hint. _We don't have time._

It wasn't long before he couldn't have held back even if he wanted to, and his body lurched forward as he retched. Dean rubbed his back and murmured encouraging words, but his mind was elsewhere.

What the hell did these people want to where they needed to put his kid brother at risk? Sam was already sick anyway. The child had the worst immune system Dean had ever witnessed.

There were two men, at least. Dean didn't know what they wanted from the brothers, but they had cunning. They couldn't be supernatural- Dad had set every trap possible. Salt lines around the door, iron fixtures, and devils traps, among other protections. So the fact that these two were human was what scared Dean the most. They were unpredictable. Dean didn't want to worry Sam, who was already nervous about his first hunt once he turned twelve in a month.

Just last week, he'd told Dean he wasn't ready for the violence that would come with hunting, and though he hated staying home or with Bobby or Jim on hunts, he also hated the idea of killing something. Ending a life. He would never revel in it the way Dean and Dad seemed to.

A strong inhale and the way Sam was suddenly leaning against him brought him back to the present.

Dean let Sam's back fall onto his chest, the young boy's body between his spread-eagled legs as he propped himself against the wall. He rested his chin on Sam's head as they breathed.

He wondered how far he would go to be sure that breathing never stopped.

**SIOUX FALLS, 2007**

"The man's name was Julius Pater," Bobby spoke casually, beginning to detail them. Both boys stiffened, Sam's hand ghosting over his heart.

Dean shook his head at Sam, already seeing the way his brother was looking at him.

_It's history, Sam_, his eyes told him. _He can't hurt you anymore. Or me. Can't hurt us._

Sam nodded while Bobby watched, bewildered by the silent conversation.

"Anyone feel like explaining?" He asked. Sam swallowed, tapping his foot.

Dean made eye contact. Sam had these hints. These little ticks that share his emotions with the world, or rather with Dean.

He probably didn't even notice his hand was on his chest, but Dean did. And it wasn't any of that sappy, dewey crap. No.

It was Sammy's tick. The one that meant... The one...

Dean flicked his head towards the stairs and the brothers stood up almost simultaneously.

"Sam, there is nothing to be _worried_about." Dean whispered the second they were out of earshot. "Even if it's him, it's still just a salt and burn. Easy. Maybe even a little vengefully sweet."

"That's the point, Dean. He's a ghost this time. He's vengeful. He'll come after us! After _you_!" Sam remarked angrily.

Dean shrugged. "I can handle it."

"Dean. We've talked about this dead-man-standing attitude! Dammit, man, I just- I want _you_, Dean. I want you to realize that it's okay to be scared. That you don't have to-to risk your life just because it'll be over soon anyway!"

"As long as you're safe-"

"Did you ever think maybe _I_ want to see _you_ safe, too! Do you ever think what it was like after... The _last_time with Pater. For me? To see you like that?"

"Yeah, well, you weren't much better, Sammy." Dean retorted.

"At least I was _conscious_."

"Which automatically makes you healthier?"

Sam sighed. "So why don't we let someone else take this one."

"There _is_ no one else. Because _some_one opened the damn gates to Hell!" Dean shouted.

Sam blinked slowly, nodding his head. "Like I didn't already know, Dean." He spoke quietly, so quietly Dean had to lean in slightly. "Like I didn't already wish every minute things had gone differently."

"Sam, I-" Dean growled at himself. There he was: messing things up again. Hurting Sam again. "I didn't mean it like that."

Sam shrugged it off and brushed past Dean. "I'm just tired."

_Tired of what?_ Dean thought. _Tired of the job? Or tired of everything?_

Join the club.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Dean ran a hand through Sam's hair, feeling his forehead for heat. It wasn't bad, but he was far from his best, judging by his flushed cheeks. And, you know, the fact that he'd just puked himself past the point of puking.

"D'n."

"Hm?" Dean asked. He didn't want to worry Sam, but his left hand remained on the small gun, the five bullets, the lifeline.

"We gotta do something."

"You sure you're good?"

Sam nodded and Dean helped him sit up off his chest. Grunting, he stood up and helped Sam to his feet.

"I need to see if they happened to leave a knife or two in the kitchen." Dean explained. "You can come with me or you can stay-"

"I'm coming." Sam grasped Dean's arm tightly and nodded with dead-set eyes.

"I know." Dean replied.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

"''e was... _tall_." The woman informed, holding up her hand to give an indication of his height. "And... 'e _threw_'er across the room just like that." She snapped her fingers. "As if it was nothing."

Sam nodded as he wrote the information down. "Did he look anything like this man?" He held up a picture of Pater, a mugshot, a small hope still dwindling.

"That's 'im!" She exclaimed.

Sam sighed and nodded and glanced at Dean, who beckoned Sam over with a jerk of his head, smoothing his coat and thanking the officer he was speaking with.

"Thank you for your time." Sam mumbled quickly, pushing past the foreign woman.

He yawned again. He'd slept pretty much the entire way from Bobby's. Dean should be the tired one.

"Get anything?" Dean asked as they met.

"She ID'd him. It's definitely Julius. The question is: why is he haunting this particular place?"

Dean looked up and down the road. "It doesn't really matter, anyway, long as we burn the sucker."

"This is the street, right?" Sam asked. "Where... we were?"

Dean nodded. "Just up those mountains." He pointed towards the tree-filled West, down a narrow gravel road.

Sam could remember that night so vividly. He shivered and pulled his jacket closer. It was just as cold as it had been that night thirteen years ago. It seemed like just yesterday.

Not much had changed in the town, other than basic technology. And Sam. He'd never been the same. And something told him the same could be said of Dean.

Their downfall that had been the unprecedented incident where salt wasn't a safe barrier. Where a silver knife made no difference and a devil's trap was just lines painted under the living room rug.

_"Monsters I get._" Dean had said two years ago. _"People are crazy."_

"Dude. Quit it. Your yawning is making me yawn." Dean complained as they walked back to the Impala. He loosened his tie and shook his head at his brother.

"I can't _help_it, Dean." Sam replied in annoyance.

"Yeah, actually, you _can_. _Here's_an idea: Get. Some. Sleep." Dean rounded the car, facing his brother over the hood.

"Oh, _I'm_ sorry. I'm too busy saving your _life_."

Dean rolled his eyes as he ducked in and started the car, the familiar rumble vibrating them slightly.

"Can you just stop at Starbucks?" Sam asked, suddenly quieter. Dean seemed to look him over, sizing him up, and Sam looked away in the hope of hiding his tired eyes from the Ever-Seeing Big Brother.

"Fine." Dean grumbled. "We'll stop for your stupid coffee."

"It's not stupid."

"It's rotting your teeth."

"_You're_rotting your liver!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. When was the last time you hooked up with a girl because she thought you had a nice liver?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "That's what I thought. Kissing a _coffee_addict on the other hand..."

Sam chuckled as he continued to stare out the window. He relished in his remaining time with banter like this a lot more than he let on.

Because maybe letting on meant acceptance. And Dean's death was something Sam would never accept.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Dean could feel Sam on him, causing him to take small shuffling steps. His brother clutched his jacket sleeve with white knuckles, his cheek buried in Dean's shoulder.

But Dean didn't say a word. This was not the time to chastise Sam about being clingy. He heard a sniffle, but didn't know whether it was a stuffy-nose sniffle or an I'm-crying one.

"Damn it to hell!" Dean shouted in anger once he reached the kitchen. The knives were gone from their rack, along with anything that could possibly be considered sharp or dangerous, including the poker from the fireplace, which was still burning strong. All he had was a gun with five bullets.

A heavy weight bashed into Dean's head and he felt to his knees, black lining his vision.

Sam's fingers were ripped from his sleeve and he heard the kid scream as the pressure hit Dean again, sending him to the ground. The last thing Dean heard was Sam shouting his name.

* * *

**That was a little 2007-heavy, but if I remember correctly, the next chapter's very 1995-heavy. I've written through chapter five, so I'll be spitting these out pretty much weekly. **

**Reviews are always appreciated. They really let me know what you like and don't like!**

**Till next week (Or sooner, but don't get your hopes up),**

**Cheers!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Terrible sorry for not responding to reviews, but I figured you guys would rather have a new chapter anyway! ...Hopefully... Thank you so much for your continued support! Here we go:**

* * *

**Previously in 1995:**

_A heavy weight bashed into Dean's head and he felt to his knees, black lining his vision._

Sam's fingers were ripped from his sleeve and he heard the kid scream as the pressure hit him again, sending him to the ground. The last thing Dean heard was Sam shouting his name.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Sam flashed his light across gravestone after gravestone, occasionally glancing at Dean two rows over.

They were searching for the grave of Julius Pater.

"What I don't get!" Sam shouted. "Is why the killings _just_ started! He's been dead over two years now!"

Dean was silent as he backtracked and re-checked a marker. "I have a theory, actually." He said, moving on. "Ever since... You came back. That's when the first one happened. Two weeks later."

Sam stopped his walking and shined his flashlight at Dean as if checking his expression for truthfulness. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"But you don't think-"

"Your own supernatural resurrection made him vengeful in a creepy ghost radar sort of way?" Dean shrugged.

"So I-" Sam stopped. "It doesn't matter anyway, I found 'im." Dean came over, hurdling a shorter grave and holding his fist over his flat palm, a dead-set look in his eyes.

"Two outta three." He stated.

"I don't understand why you always win." Dean grumbled a couple hours later, throwing the blade into the dirt and shoveling.

"You're predictable." Sam replied.

"Am not."

"_Scissors_. Every friggin' time."

Dean pretended to look hurt, when in reality he enjoyed this easy bickering with his brother. He sniggered as his spade hit solid and Sam jumped in beside him.

"Go for it." His little brother said. Dean smashed it down, splintering the wood enough to spot the body he'd smelled long earlier, and Sam pried it open.

"Just another day on the job." Dean mumbled as he grabbed his brother's hand to pull him out. Sam shook salt while Dean doused it in gas and lit it.

"Yeah, not quite." Sam muttered half to himself, thirteen-year-old images replaying in his mind like it was only yesterday. "You do remember what this guy did to you, right? To us?"

Dean sniffed and threw the shovel over his shoulder. "That's old news. We don't have to think about this guy again, Sammy."

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Dean groaned and turned his head, finding his cheek to be mashed against the cold floor of... Not the cabin. It was hay, itching at his skin. But that was the least of his concerns. His hands were tied behind his back as he laid on his stomach, but he couldn't manage to roll over onto his back. There was something in the way, a wall or a barn door maybe.

Dean heard a crunch as someone's weight was displaced. "Sam?" He whispered hopefully. But it was too heavy to be sixty-pound-Sam.

"You son of a bitch. Where is he?" Dean grunted out. "If you hurt a hair on his head, I swear I'll-"

A face ducked into Dean's vision suddenly, but it didn't say a word. A white mask covered the man's face, similar to the Phantom of the Opera, which Sam had forced him to watch during that musical stage of his two years ago. Dean cringed even more than he had then.

He put a finger to his lips, signaling Dean to be quiet.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked again, vaguely aware of a liquid trickling down the back of his neck.

The masked man said nothing, but wrapped a hand around the necklace Dean wore and pulled. "The _hell_?" Dean struggled in his bonds again.

Phantom took the amulet and pressed it against the back of Dean's bloody head.

"What're you... Oh, _no_." Dean said when he figure it out. "Don't! You _can't_!"

Half the man's face grinned sadistically as he closed the heavy barn doors behind him, a broken, bloody amulet in hand.

**************

Sam moaned and turned his head slowly, his eyelids fluttering. He forgot where he was for a minute in a fog of sleep and fever, but then it all came rushing back with a shiver. He snapped his eyes open.

"Dean?" Sam attempted, his voice cracking and dry.

He sat in a rocking chair with his wrists and ankles tied to the arms and legs of the seat, and pulling seemed to do nothing. The fire still crackled, and Sam could see the melting remains of his phone.

Tensing at the sound of footsteps, Sam watched the shadow grow as it turned the corner. He was masked, the man. An old-fashioned ski mask, too, like the ones the robbers used to wear.

The robber seemed to chuckle as he walked closer, seeming to enjoy the sight of his victim with no where to turn.

He didn't say a word, but his intent was just as clear when he pulled out a long, sharp knife.

Sam gasped, breathing heavily, wanting more than anything to just go back to sleep or unconsciousness or whatever it was he'd been long enough for them to stick him in this chair. Not because he was a wimp or he couldn't handle pain, oh no, he just figured- _knew_- the anxiety this whole event was giving him would make his hair grey by twelve. He wanted away.

But no. He couldn't. He had to find Dean.

The Robber took the knife and let the tip tickle Sam's throat. He pressed lightly, enough to draw a thin line of blood and accelerate Sam's breathing even more.

"I don't know what you want." He grunted. The Robber stared at him before slamming the knife down, right between Sam's fingers.

He just grinned from ear to ear and pointed at the folded up picture he'd taken from Sam's hand-me-down wallet.

The paper was worn from years of wear and tear, but the face was still prominent.

"Y-you want... _Dean_..." Sam choked out.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

By the time Sam stepped into the shower, the water was cold. He rolled his eyes, but stuck his head under anyway, because the job was over, Dean was fine, and it was as straightforward as it should've been- and that in itself was hard to believe.

He twisted habitually in the mirror to take a good long look at the faint scar square in his back from a fatal knife wound that had become fatal in a whole other sense of the word.

Because Sam wasn't the one dying.

And the way _he_ saw it, Dean himself had said "What's dead should stay dead." He could argue all he wanted that he was just making things right after what Dad had done for him, but saving your living and breathing family was different from bringing him back from the dead.

He used the flow from the faucet to drown out his call.

"Hi. Is this Zachary Brown? I heard he'd be back in town-"

Sam swept his wet hair out of his eye. "Yes, I understand it's late... He's... Okay, would you please tell him to call me when the plane lands? Thanks." Sam rested his elbows on the counter, closed his eyes, and pressed his phone to his temple.

"I'll get you out of this one, Dean," He mumbled. "Let me save your life for a change."

He cleared his throat and blinked his eyes. His neck was burning for some reason. With a quick glance in the mirror, Sam silently gasped, his hand flying to the thin sliver of blood running down his throat.

"How..." He wasn't shaving or anything. Sam grabbed a Kleenex and wiped the blood away in confusion.

Buttoning his jeans as he kicked the bathroom door closed, it took less than a second for the scene before him to register.

"Dean!"

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

"What do you want?" Sam growled, his ear an inch from the Robber's face.

Wait. What would _Dean_ do?

"I don't know what you want from us!"

_Dean_ would bad mouth the son of a bitch to hell and back.

"Whatever you want, it's not happening. Because Dean Winchester is going to kick your ass so hard your grandchildren's grandchildren'll be bleeding." Sam replied smoothly.

A boot appeared and Sam moved his head almost just in time as it landed on his temple and knocked both him and the chair over backwards.

The man leaned over him and chuckled crazily, spit flying.

"What do you want with Dean?" Sam tried again, his voice coming out shakier than he had wanted it to, because this guy was a maniac.

But it was terrifying. Because this guy _wasn't_ a supernatural monster. He's just a monster, period. A monster who wants Dean out of the game for some reason.

The Robber grinned and laughed and cackled but he wouldn't say a word. He wouldn't take off his mask, either. He just... _Watched_ Sam.

"I don't know what you WANT FROM US!" Sam shouted frustratingly.

The man paced and twirled his knife and smiled.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT!" Sam screamed in exhaustion, bowing his head.

He felt a hand on his cheek. Sam's eyes snapped open.

The Robber unclasped his hand and let the amulet dangle, crusted with blood.

"No... _No_!" Sam cried. The man just laughed. "Nononono_no_..." Dean couldn't be, right? It was a trick. But Dean wouldn't give up his amulet unless he had no choice.

Sam made eye contact with the Robber and he nodded slowly, as if reading Sam's mind.

"NO!"

**************

Dean could hear the scream clearly.

"Sammy!" He shouted back, but his voice didn't carry far, considering he was still on his stomach.

Dean felt a boot kick his side and he cursed. "Whatever you're doing to him I'll do to you twice!" He threatened.

"NO! DEAN!"

Dean wriggled around, ignoring the sharp pain every time he did so.

A foot fell on Dean's neck and he froze.

_'Don't. Test me._' The stare seemed to say, chilling Dean's bones even more. The Phantom looked unamused as he took his shoe away forcefully.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

"Dean!"

Sam ran over and collapsed at Dean's side. His brother's eyes were closed, his breath a soft huff, and Sam searched for an injury.

His ribs.

Blue and swollen and hopefully nothing more than bruised.

Sam glanced around frantically before his eyes fell on the door. The salt line was broken.

Quick as a flash, he flung himself towards the bed and the shotgun, positioning himself in front of Dean, just in time to face the ghost flickering back at him.

He shot without a moment's hesitation.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

The tormentors were experts. Or so it seemed.

The Phantom couldn't help smiling, and the Robber grinned ear to ear from his point of view, too.

They had manage to get both boys screaming for the other with little physical damage.

The Robber had dropped the bloody amulet in Sam's lap ages ago, and after much maneuvering, the boy held the metal in his hand.

Dean was dead.

"Ple-_ease_." Sam sobbed quietly, his head bowed. "Jus' stop. _Please_." He'd had enough, but he honestly didn't care anymore. Dad was in a whole other state, his Dean was gone, and Sam had nothing to live for.

Dean was _dead_.

His eyes grew hot with tears again, and Sam felt no shame or need to hide it this time. His front was down, and that was just what these guys wanted.

_Dean_ was-

"SAAAAAMMYYY!"

Sam's head snapped up, recognition and hope blooming on his fevered features.

"DEAN?!" He called back. "_DEAN_!"

A dirty hand clapped over Sam's mouth until a dirty gag was shoved in place.

The Robber was just stepping back to admire his handiwork when Sam's raw and bloody, yet free hand lashed out and hit him right in the temple.

He yelped, stumbled back, and Sam used the moment to frantically free his other arm shakily.

The Robber's fingers were at Sam's throat within an instant, strengthening their hold against the already weak eleven year old.

Sam clawed with his fingernails at the gloved hands, gasping for breath. The Robber laughed at Sam's feeble attempts at taking in oxygen, his breath tickling Sam's neck.

He was close enough.

With a strangled cry, Sam jerked his head back straight into his captor's nose, feeling the hands release immediately and fly up to the broken cartilage.

His shaking hands undid his ankles before the Robber could counterattack. Sam froze as he stood, his head spinning, and stumbled forward.

He wheeled around towards the man with the full intent of beating him down to size and coaxing Dean's whereabouts out, but the sight of the gleaming knife changed his mind.

Sam turned and ran towards the bedroom, where he remembered seeing Dean pull a gun from under the bed.

All I need is a weapon.

Sam slammed the door shut, propped a chair under it, and turned the lock. He dove under the bed and felt the overturned floorboard knock his shoulder.

A strong force slammed against the door, causing the eleven-year-old to slam his head on the bottom of the bed, cursing.

The bang sounded again and again as Sam ran his fingers in search of the hole. Finally, his hand found a deeper crevice and he placed both in in search.

"No!" There was nothing left but dust and dead bugs. "No!"

At the same time as Sam backed out in realization he was screwed, the door splintered and then burst open, the chair flying, as the dark shadow of a bloody man fell over Sam.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

The blast of the gun knocked Sam backwards a little, and he crawled back to Dean's side the second the spirit dissipated.

"Dean!" He shook his brother's shoulder with no response, and figured it was acceptable to tap him lightly on his cheek.

Suddenly, a force swept him up and flung him into the wall as it gave away slightly, bending behind the younger man, the bathroom tile on the other side of the thin wall crumbling.

Sam groaned as he landed on the ground, but was soon left speechless. A ghost stood before him, but it wasn't Pater.

"You..." Sam whispered tiredly. He felt the blood trailing down his head and found it increasingly hard to concentrate. "I thought... W... We'd killed... You..." He exhaled. The ghost shook his head in amusement at the surprised hunter. Sam realized what the dead man insinuated.

_We did kill him. He's a ghost. And he's pissed._

The ghost threw out his hand and curled it slowly. Sam felt the pressure, as if it was ripping his insides out, a burning hot pain that made him short of breath in an instant.

"Ah... Stop!" Sam shouted. "Dean!" He blurted. But last he saw, Dean was lying unconscious six feet away.

The pain ended abruptly and Sam could vaguely make out the sound of a shotgun as his eyes closed.

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**So that's it for this time! Questions? Comments? I'll try to update _As the Years Go By _soon. I appreciate all reviews, alerts, and favorites, as always! 3 See you soon!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Wowza, thanks for the kind words! I'm glad everyone likes the story! (I'm not glad that I was NOT ABLE TO GET MY FRIGGIN EMAIL TO WORK RIGHT) So I apologize if you were one of the few who didn't get a response. I really do read them and they really do keep me going. I love you all.**

* * *

"_Dean_?" Sam whispered incredulously.

He heard a strangled sigh of relief come from his brother as the door was closed.

"Sammy..." Dean breathed, falling to his knees in front of him. "C'mere, little brother." Sam's body shook as Dean embraced him.

"I thought you w-were—"

"Me too." Dean replied.

"I'm just s-s-so _glad_—"

"Me too."

Dean suddenly seemed to remember where they were. "To the bathroom." He ordered.

"But one of the guys! Out there! In the ski mask!"

"There was no one out— wait. The second man. You say he was wearing a_ ski mask_?"

Sam nodded. "One guy in a white mask, one guy in a ski mask."

"No." Dean groaned as he got to his feet, holding out a hand and pulling Sam up beside him. "He was wearing a surgical mask."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "Nuh-uh."

He sat in the tub while Dean took a seat on the closed toilet, his elbows resting on his knees. In any other situation, Sam might find it funny. Not today.

"You... Know what this means?" Dean asked somberly. Sam wasn't dumb. 'Course he did.

"Yeah," Sam replied, his voice shaking. "We're outnumbered."

Dean nodded solemnly.

"Was there a man out there? When you came in?"

Dean shook his head. "No. You've been hiding in here the whole time?"

Sam shook his head and Dean followed his gaze to his wrists.

"Stand up." Dean ordered, his voice wavering.

"But—"

"I need to check you over. Did they hurt you? They _hurt_you!" He growled in anger.

Sam reluctantly got on his feet in response, and Dean did their usual post-hunt check up, working head to toe.

He sighed and gently rubbed his thumb over the growing bruise above Sam's eye.

"Does your neck hurt?" Sam shook his head. So Dean nodded and continued.

"Sammy, your wrists." He stated, holding one tenderly in his own hand. They were both raw and bloody, especially the one he'd had to wrench free to attack the Robber.

"How else was I going to get free, Dean?" Sam asked in exasperation. "Where were you?"

Dean couldn't tell if Sam's tone was accusatory or simply worried. "I was in the barn. But I got out."

"What about the guy?"

"I got out."

"Dean. What did you do?" Sam said with his hands on his hips, sounding like the mother of a toddler with a taste for destruction.

"Nothing! Okay? He slipped out for some reason, so... I slipped out, too. I did _nothing_. I promise."

"You don't always keep promises." Sam reminded him skeptically.

Dean put a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder. "I keep the good ones." He grinned.

Sam smiled back for a fleeting moment and Dean patted his pockets. "Took my gun, though. Watched him set it high up where I could never reach it. Not in the amount of time I had before he came back. Our only weapon, damn it."

"Dean," Sam whispered, exasperatedly and painfully, his brother's attention instantly focused on him again. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, and his clothes hung loosely around his frame, his body too thin even for the wiry kid he was.

Dean could tell he was on his last straw, the stark contrast of his rosy red cheeks and pink nose against the pallor of his skin a testament to the return of the fever.

Probably from the strain of the night.

His blinking lasted just a little longer each second. The combination of drugs and overall exhaustion were getting to him— probably had been getting to him for a while now.

Dean could barely believe just hours ago the same boy that was searching bravely for weapons and escaping from captors had sleepily stumbled out of bed to ask for a glass of milk.

"How are we ever going to get out of here?" Sam asked.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean tried to ignore the pounding in the back of his own head. "We're gonna kick some ass."

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

"...am... _Sam_... Sammy..."

The voice slowly brought Sam back to consciousness and he frowned as he felt what an uncomfortable position he was in, slumped against the wall with his neck at a weird angle.

"Sammy?" Dean's strained voice spoke, a little more directly to his brother than the previous chanting of his name to egg him on into the living world. "I saw that frown. You with me?"

Sam squinted his eyes before opening them fully, quickly shoving his brother away and attempting to stand up independently. "It's Sam." He slurred.

Dean hovered, seeming to forget that he was the one out like a light in the first place.

"Dean. Dean! I'm fine!" He protested as Dean checked the cut on the back of his head.

"You're fine? Was the ghost wearing Nikes by any chance?"

"What?"

"'Cause there is totally a boot shaped bruise on your forehead."

"What?" Sam repeated.

"Yeah, man. It puts your shoe size to shame."

Dean's gaze lowered past Sam's chin.

"And your neck. Did all that happen when I was out?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders and sat down on the nearest dingy bed. It creaked as he rested his back against the headboard.

"I don't know. I didn't feel it. Either of them."_ Doesn't mean I don't feel them now_. "What happened to you anyway?"

"Ghost man just showed up." Dean briefed. "I barely got a look at him but what I saw..."

"It... Uh... Looked like him, didn't it? He... Ah... He... Gave me this... Look... And I... _Geez_... Knew..."

Dean looked up from the first aid kit. "Sam?" He dropped the bandages and walked over. Sam mumbled something breathlessly.

"What?" Dean leaned closer as Sam furiously shook his head.

The twenty four year old shot forward and puked.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Dean gripped the door knob, telling himself to open it and put on a brave face for Sam.

"Remember the plan?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded.

"Okay. Three, two, one..." Dean yanked the door open to an empty hallway.

He crept down the thin room, motioning Sam on with the familiar wave of the hand he'd seen on hunts since he first held a shotgun.

Shotgun.

The name of a gun in his mind was as painful as a starving man dreaming of a feast. And Dean was hungry for the upper hand here.

Sam tiptoed down the hallway in his socks, quiet as a mouse, and assumed his position opposite Dean.

"Now!" Dean stage-whispered, turning the corner and preparing to fend off any attackers, a broken chair leg in his hand. Sam slid past him and into the kitchen, not even stopping for a moment to ponder the lack of burly men with weapons.

He was just small enough.

The crawl space under the kitchen sink had been stuffed full with cleaning supplies and the pungent smell tickled Sam's nose as he tucked himself in.

"Dean." He whispered once he was fully under. Dean ran over and shut the cabinet door, closing Sam in and effectively hiding him. "I'm not happy with this idea." He stated adamantly through the door.

"I'm not risking your safety again, Sam." The sixteen year old responded firmly, sounding annoyed while a nuance in his voice suggested otherwise.

Sam heard the wavering whisper too. "I'll be fine, Dean." He answered sincerely. Of course he would. Dean was here.

"It's not like I'm putting you completely out of action." Dean added, casting a glance towards the rest of the room. Still alone.

_Hopelessly alone._

Dean shook the thought out of his head. "If I need help, I've got you, right?"

He could almost see Sam smile through the door.

The younger boy sniffed. "But only if I'm not outnumbered." He repeated Dean's instructions.

"Right."

"You'll be okay?" It wasn't a statement. It was a question.

"I'll be fine, Sammy."

"Promise me?"

Dean sighed. He didn't want to make a promise he didn't know if he could keep.

He'd just have to make sure he kept this one.

"I promise."

Dean rapped lightly on the wood to let Sam know it was go time.

_Knock on wood, _hethought_. Can't hurt._

He went to turn away when he thought of one more thing.

"Sam. If-if it's obvious I'm in trouble, and- and coming out will only get you hurt too, I don't want to see you walking out full hero to save the day, okay? You wait till they're... _Occupied_..." He sidestepped carefully, flinching. "And make a run for it. You find a phone, call Dad, and get your ass in the nearest building with other people, and you stay there, okay?"

His forehead was pressed against the wood to the point where he could hear Sam's ragged breathing on the other side.

He was glad Sam couldn't see his face right now, or the number of emotions running across it. He blinked the moisture away quickly and stood up when he realized Sam didn't want to respond.

"I'll be waiting for you, Dean," He heard the timid voice reply. It was so soft he had to strain to hear it, subconsciously leaning towards the sink. "Kick it in the ass."

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Sam rolled back over and sat up, immediately disgusted with himself.

"T'lj'so," He groaned.

Dean was frozen, his eyes shut. "What?" He managed.

"I said... I told you so." Sam repeated. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he pried them open and took in the sight.

"Ah, man, I'm sorry." Sam sympathized. Dean was already pulling off his shirt, but seeing how miserable Sam was, he let his annoyance go for his brother's sake.

The retching had reopened whatever the cut on Sam's neck was, and it wasn't until Dean tried to slip his shirt over his head that he realized how much his side ached.

And he knew Sam was out of it when he didn't say anything when Dean hissed and cussed at the purplish and swollen side of his chest.

He switched jeans as another burst of pain flared and caused even more wondrous anger at the new wound with no explanation.

They were both instant, the injuries, either unfelt at the time of injury or they crept in silently, though Dean found that highly unlikely.

A soft groan brought Dean's attention back to his brother, and he stepped carefully over the mess to Sam's side.

His skin was clammy, his face pale, and his breathing off. He only furrowed his brow when Dean took a tissue to the sliver of blood on his neck.

Dean pulled the blanket up around Sam despite the kid's groggy protests and collected his supplies. Meds, water, and washcloths in hand, he sat down next to Sam.

"Sammy? You with me?" Dean asked, pressing a newly chilled cloth to the hunter's forehead.

"M'hm..." Sam hummed out. His eyes didn't open, but his head cocked in the direction of Dean's voice, the older man chancing a smile at the old habit.

"Can you sit up so I can get some drugs in ya?"

Sam nodded and pried his eyes into a squint, instantly seeing his brother's worried gaze in return. "'s b'fore," He mumbled, taking the pill with water greedily.

"Slow down, slow down." Dean ordered as Sam lifted a hand to tilt the glass steeper. "What's before?"

Sam began to close his eyes, drifting off to sleep again. Dean could wait until after Sam had gotten some rest-

"Sam! What is it?" Dean didn't mean to sound so harsh, and when Sam opened his eyes again, Dean removed his arm.

"Reruns..." Sam whispered, nodding off and sleepily entering the world of unconsciousness.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Sam pressed his eye against the crack as he watched Dean pace the room.

Dean had never been particularly good at waiting, Sam recalled. Once a job was done, he was always the first to want to pack up and hit the road.

"Come on!" He shouted, arms out wide in invitation. If this was the best plan Dean had to get all the bad guys, Sam cringed, they must be in deep trouble.

Once Dean had all the men watching him, he would run to the barn, grab the gun, and take no prisoners. Sam wasn't necessarily happy with the plan, but at this point, he just wanted away. Away from the creeps, away from the strangers who kept trying to hurt him. Hurt Dean.

He was so lost in his thoughts he hadn't heard the approaching footsteps. Dean had, though, and as the man moved into Sam's eye shot he could see the surgical mask and knew it was the man Dean had mentioned.

And the way he held that knife, Sam would never look at doctors the same way.

"Fancy to meet you here," Dean plastered a smile on, twisting the chair leg in his hand. The surgeon growled menacingly, but Dean just grinned back.

The man lunged forward with the large knife, Dean sidestepped, and swung the leg like a baseball bat, hitting the man squarely in the wrist.

The knife dropped to the floor and Dean kicked it away. Sam watched with his eye pressed against the crack of the cabinet.

Dean bit his lip as he pulled the leg up for another hit, this time to the big man's head, but it was halted on the downward return.

Sam gasped before slapping a hand over his mouth, but no one seemed to hear him. They were too focused on the beefy hand clutching the end of Dean's only weapon, attached to the grinning face of a muscular, cynical man in a ski mask.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Dean pulled the covers up around his brother, glad he had been able to get a little sleep. The past couple days had been lots of throwing up, lots of nightmares, and a too sparse amount of time spent figuring out who the hell that ghost was, because Sam sure hadn't said anything since the very observational remark on reruns, whatever that was supposed to mean.

Dean ran a hand through his hair before grinding his palms into his eyes and trying to decide whether withstanding another mug of caffeine or catching some Z's would be better.

When he found himself nodding off and jerking his head up, Dean figured he'd found his answer.

He was just pushing out of his chair when a phone rang. Dean held up his phone with its own blank screen before recognizing Sam's ringtone and searching for that one instead.

"Hello."

"Sam? Sam Winchester?"

"Uh, no. Sam can't... can't come to the phone right now. Who is this?" Dean shot a furtive glance at his sleeping brother and walked outside.

"Zachary Brown. Sam asked me to call. Just got time to get back to him. About my dad's book?"

Dean paused for a second. "Oh! Oh, _yeah_, the book, right." He faked. "Yeah, Sam didn't give me the details. Would you mind?"

"Well I don't think it'll help much anyway. You see, I asked my grandmother? And she said something about the '_hellhounds_' Sam mentioned, but that the journal wouldn't help. Well, she said it in a very heated way, but uh... Pretty much Sam's friend is screwed."

Dean swallowed as he paced, stopping and leaning against the hood of the Impala. "Good to know."

Dean snapped the phone shut and continued his pacing. How the hell did Sam get sick so suddenly? Sure, the kid had the worst immune system Dean had ever seen, but the insta-flu followed by the black eye, both without explanation?

And Dean's side too, blue, purple, and swollen, and it hurt like a bitch, not like he would tell anyone.

And the ghost. Dean hadn't gotten a good look at him. Taken him by surprised, it had, and when it knocked Sammy out he'd turned and shot, simple as that. Dean didn't know what to think, but he knew this was a conversation to brainstorm with College Boy.

Yeah, the genius who'd been mumbling about "reruns." If that kid wanted to watch an I Love Lucy marathon, Dean wasn't complaining, but he could only hope it was really a step in the right direction on this— these— ghosts.

He returned to Sam still asleep, so he sat down on the opposite bed, only to yelp and shoot back up. Furrowing his brow, Dean slid his hand under the thin sheets and pulled out a journal of folded papers, clips, and scrawled writing. Sam's writing.

Dean frantically flipped through them, one after another on hellhounds, crossroads demons, every trick in the book.

A page of phone numbers fell out and into Dean's lap. Most were crossed out angrily in red, and when Dean noticed the name Zachary Brown second from the top (of course Sam would alphabetize), he thought sadly that it too would soon be marked out blood red.

"Sammy... What've you been up to..." He muttered as he flipped through the papers.

"Sav'n you, y'a suicid'l son ova b'tch." Sam slurred drowsily.

Dean snapped his head up and shut the journal as if Sam hadn't already seen what he was looking at.

"Sam—"

"Don' 'Sam' me, Dean." He retorted, more awake in light of the discovery. "Gonna patronize me for helping? Because you've pretty much let it be known that you don't care about your life?"

"Sam," Dean swallowed and closed his eyes. When they opened again he looked at Sam truthfully. "I can't watch you die. _Again_. How many big brothers have to say that one? You weren't supposed to—" He choked up on the word. "Weren't supposed to—"

"Get stabbed in the back?" Sam offered cooly.

Dean gave a tiny nod. "Do you know how hard it is to go to sleep at night and relive _your_ death? I can still feel the weight of you, Sammy, as I c-carried you to the car. The older one is supposed to go first, right? _Please_, understand."

His green eyes hit Sam with such honesty, the younger man couldn't just say no. "Okay, yes. Dean, I understand. But what you need to understand is the possible compromise we have here?"

Dean tilted his head expectantly.

"How about neither of us die?"

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Sam watched the chair leg tear out of Dean's arms and tried not to scream an unnecessary warning.

He was as pressed against the cabinet as much as possible without spilling out into the tile for everyone to see.

"If-if it's obvious I'm in trouble..." Dean's words replayed in Sam's mind as he bit his lip. "You wait till they're... Occupied..."

Sam shivered as he watched. Dean don't even flinch as the Robber threw a punch, dodging it with ease and using the momentum to swing his own jab back at the burly man.

He swept under the Surgeon's arm and elbowed him right in the gut. "Where's your _friend_?" He grunted. "Third-wheeled?" A large fist landed on Dean's jaw and he took a step back, dazed.

"You're going to regret that." He shook his head and smiled, seeming to enjoy beating the crap out of the guys. Two men Dean could probably handle. But he'd forgotten about his chair leg.

It hit him right on the backs of his knees and he plunged to the ground in surprise.

"I don't want to see you walking out full hero to save the day, okay?"

A tear slipped down Sam's cheek as he watched the brutal beating. The Robber kicked Dean just about everywhere until the Surgeon almost greedily decided he wanted a turn.

Dean groaned and rocked as if trying to get to his feet or at least on his side, but even if it was possible, it wouldn't have helped.

The Surgeon mounted him like an MMA fighter, throwing elbows and punches left and right, which Dean ducked well at first.

Sam wanted to scream at them, beat them, try to give Dean something, but he remembered Dean's words.

_"I don't want to see you walking out full hero to save the day, okay?"_

Sam's chin quivered as the beating continued. He heard a snap and nothing more than a soft moan from Dean as a powerful kick to the side broke a rib.

_"Make a run for it. You find a phone, call Dad, and get your ass in the nearest building with other people..."_

Sam swallowed a sob as the third man appeared and grabbed Dean's wrists. The Surgeon kicked open the back door for him and Sam watched the three of them walk out, his brother between them.

His brother slipping away.

_"...and you stay there, okay?"_

Sam pressed his back against the back of the cabinet, rested his head, and tried to control his breathing. He _hated_ himself.

He had _sat_ there. He had _watched_. If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem, right?

Silent tears slid past his nose and Sam made no effort to wipe them away. He was too tired. Or maybe he was too mad. Or maybe he was too ashamed.

His eyes began to droop and he forced them open. He had to wait. For _Dean_. He had to say he was sorry.

But eventually, Sam's eyes closed and he left them there, his soft hitched breathing barely audible through the cabinet doors.

* * *

**The End... For now.**

**So Sam is saying something about reruns... What do you think he's talking about? Maybe he watches late night Seinfelds too!**

**I really appreciate all reviews, alerts, favorites, and "hey, maybe I'll read the next chapter"s. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Long time no see! Sorry for the wait, but here's chapter five now! Not the longest, but I've finished the next chapter, which is pretty long.** **I appreciate all reviews, follows, favorites, and everything in between. They honestly do keep me writing! Cheers!**

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Dean didn't realize he'd closed his eyes until he opened them. He was in the same awkward position as he had been when he'd dozed off— slumped in a sitting position against the headboard with his neck at an awkward angle that allowed for him to watch both the TV and his brother simultaneously.

Speaking of the kid, the sheets were messed up and the pillows were stacked up one on top of the other the way Sam liked it, but the twenty four year old himself was nowhere to be found.

Dean sniffed and ran a hand through his hair tiredly as the sound of the shower tuning off with a loud groan sounded through the walls of the cheap motel, and the knowledge of where Sam had gotten off to slipped through his groggy mind.

Sam came out minutes later, a towel around his waste and a slightly better hue coloring his cheeks.

"You're awake." He stated obviously, looking Dean over.

"You're up." Dean replied.

Sam shrugged. "I felt gross."

"How do you feel now?"

"Better, I guess. At least I think the fever broke." He still wavered sideways, Dean noticed. Still weak.

But Dean just nodded and cracked his neck as he stood up. "Great. I meant to ask you—"

"Can we get some food?" Sam interrupted.

Dean turned away from his duffel and furrowed his brow at Sam. "You hungry?"

"Don't tell me you aren't. I doubt you've taken the time to eat since I've been physically able to."

Dean thought it over and didn't disagree. Plus, it was nice to hear Sam not sound so sick. Having an appetite.

"Alright," He grabbed the keys and contained a groan as his side protested. He thought— he knew he had to talk to Sam about this, about these blooming, inexplicable injuries, but after everything they'd been through, Sam's... _death_... and Dean's deal and Gordon and now this... A harsh reminder of a childhood memory they'd all tried desperately to forget.

"Dean!" He stopped spinning his keys on his finger and met eyes with Sam.

"Dude. I called your name like six times."

"Oh." Dean mumbled, still in thought. "Sorry."

"So... Are we going?"

"You stay here. You're not ready to be up and around. Get back in bed before you pull something."

Sam grumbled but complied surprisingly easily, just supporting Dean's growing theory that he was stubborn, not healthy.

"Stick to the bed, watch some HGTV, and don't research my resurrection, 'Kay?" He raised his eyebrows and Sam rolled his eyes.

"Dean-"

"Hippie salad, got it, Armstrong."

Well, Sam was going to say he'd recalculated and he didn't think he could hold it down, but there was no reason to ruin his brother's happy attitude. Sam sighed and made a point of dramatically turning on the TV until Dean nodded and flashed him a thumbs up as he left the motel room feeling better than he had in days, in more ways than one.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Sam woke with a start in the stuffy cabinet, not at all sure where he was or what was happening, but it felt like someone had smashed his head on some hot asphalt and his wrists throbbed in reminder.

_Escape_.

The sudden flood of memories had tears springing to the kid's eyes instantly, because Dean being dragged away was replaying in his head as he sat with his thumb up his ass catching up on beauty sleep.

And he knew he was being hard on himself, because he'd only done what Dean had told him to do, but it still felt horribly wrong.

So Sam aimed to make it right.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but his muscles were sore nonetheless as he unhooked his arms from their wrap around his knees.

There was no one around that Sam heard, so he grabbed the Lysol from under the sink and clambered out as silently as possible.

The door was still ajar from where Dean had been taken— the back door, which meant Dean was either far far away from the house or, more likely, back in the barn.

Sam himself had never been in there, he'd pretty much been bedridden since they'd arrived, but he could figure out the general path.

In daylight that is.

He winced as he placed his socked foot on the snow, the cold sending shocking shivers to the bone.

By the time he reached the dense trees the snow was to his shin and his sweatpants were soaking wet, but he gripped the Lysol even tighter.

That was when he heard the noises.

Sam had heard the same sounds his entire life, but it sent chills down his spine in the context. It came from his left, and while instincts told him to move in the opposite direction, the twelve-year-old instead sneaked closer to the men and his brother. Because that was the sound of assembling weapons.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Sam was asleep when Dean returned and he rolled his eyes, though in reality he knew more than anyone how much his brother needed it.

He'd gotten a few looks while out in public, as new nicks and bruises had appeared and he was beginning to look like he came out on the bottom of a bad bar brawl.

Dean decided it was about time to have a conversation with Sam about "reruns."

"Hey, Sammy," Dean nudged his brother into consciousness gently, the groceries still balanced in his arms. "_Sam_."

He sighed when the twenty-three-year-old didn't even stir and threw the sandwiches onto the opposite bed.

"Sam..." He tried again, a course hand running shyly through Sam's hair, because he hasn't done this in a while, too long, and he'd forgotten the shameful sense of comfort taking care of his little brother gave him.

Sam's bangs were still a little wet, like the fever hasn't left yet, but was standing on the doorstep contemplating a surprise return.

His skin looked less flushed, though, his breathing sounded better, and he hadn't thrown up since Dean had left for lunch, so things were definitely looking up.

Sam huffed and blinked his eyes open, sitting up and focusing his gaze on Dean.

"Dear God, man, I leave you alone for fifteen minutes and you take one step forward, two steps back!" Dean complained at the sickly look of Sam's face.

"You don't look so well yourself," he replied, eyes coasting Dean's face.

Sam's comment on his new cuts jogged his memory.

"Sammy, I know you're tired— and hopefully hungry— but I really need to know what _reruns_ means."

Sam stared deep in his eyes, swallowing as if the answer was on the tip of his tongue and he was debating saying it out loud.

His sight drifted to his feet, his brows furrowed, and he looked back up at Dean.

"What?"

Dean sighed, because his brother was _really_ out of it. But there had been something different about the way he'd spoken of "reruns." Like he actually meant what he said.

"Reruns. You said reruns. Earlier, like when you were sick. Do you remember what it means?" Dean asked patiently.

Recognition lit Sam's face and he nodded, but as he opened his mouth his eyes grew wide. Dean would recognize Sammy symptoms anywhere and grabbed the ice bucket, holding it under his brother just in time for the twenty-four year old to puke.

Sam gasped as his stomach muscles tightened and despite the tense atmosphere since Dean's last argument with his brother about the deal, Dean found himself performing an old familiar gesture, massaging Sam's stomach with one hand like he used to.

One time Sam had thrown up so much he was just heaving, his stomach cramping much worse than now, either that or...

...he was more used to pain, Dean thought sadly.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Sam closed his eyes and focused on breathing as he tilted his head back against the oak.

He could feel the bile rising in his throat, mysteriously cold and hot simultaneously, and he was surprised the men hasn't heard his teeth chattering.

He opened his mouth to take in a shaky breath, but instead it opened a pathway. Sam fell to his knees as he puked, trying to keep silent, but failing miserably.

A tear snaked down his face as he retched loudly, knowing what was coming and still screaming despite himself as strong arms grabbed him by the abdomen and picked him up as if he weighed nothing.

Sam kicked, felt his socked heel connect with a shin and heard a grunt, but no words. And suddenly, as he was half dragged, half carried, Sam felt the burning desire to hear a _voice_. To hear _something_ that said these people were human.

With a war cry, he smashed his skull back into his captor's face, hearing a slight _thunk _but nothing else, besides a huff of laughter.

Sam was weak. But if he'd learned anything from Dean, from his father, it was that one never backs down when they feel they're losing; they push harder.

He threw his head down and bit the man's hand, watching the masked figure lose his grip. Sam's feet touched the ground and he made it all of two feet before the second man appeared and tackled him to the snow.

Sam felt a boot hit his head with force and all went dark.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Eventually, Sam slackened in Dean's arms and he pulled himself away to assess his brother.

"We don't have long." Sam mumbled feverishly.

"What?" Dean put a hand on Sam's cheek, feeling the warmth in addition to the subtle way the twenty-four year old leaned towards it.

"We're running out of time... Reruns, Dean." His eyes began to close in exhaustion, but Dean tapped his cheek with the hand still thumbing his brother's face.

"No, Sam, wait."

"Sl'p." Sam mumbled.

"No, Sammy, not yet. Not until you tell me what reruns means."

"Oh, yeah..." Sam licked his lips and swallowed slowly before speaking. "'s not good, D'n. E'erything's repeating. Like... The night..."

Dean's eyes widened, running a mental tab of injuries in his mind. A fever, just like That Night. His ribs, he shuddered, just like That Night. And Sam's _face_, his neck, his arms, and the return of the second round of fever.

He suddenly gasped. "No! Sammy, no. We'll find the ghost before."

"We a'ready thought we did, D'n. Good luck findin' the'ther two..."

"You don't think..."

"I dunno if things'll be permanent, but Dean, you can tell by you're inj'ries. They're getting worse. The barn's getting closer."

"I'll _find_ it!" Dean shouted angrily. He'd let that happen to his brother once, there was _no_ _way_ he'd let it happen twice.

"No way," He repeated aloud. "N-no way..."

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**Well? Whatcha think? Like I said, I have chapter 6 written so it'll definitely be next weekend! Happy Thanksgiving!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks for such a lovely response to last week's chapter! It means so much to me! **

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**Last week:**

**_BROKEN RIDGE, 2007_**

_"I'll find it!" Dean shouted angrily. He'd let that happen to his brother once, there was no way he'd let it happen twice._

_"No way," He repeated._

_It was time to get busy._

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Sam woke standing up. The first thing he noticed was his wrists elevated above his head.

The second thing he noticed was the man across from him. Not much of a man, but more hardened into one in the last however many hours than anyone Sam'd met.

"D'n..." He groaned at his brother's sleeping form, but the teen's eyes remained closed.

His face was a mess. His arms were a disaster, and he doubted Dean's chest was doing too well, either.

"_Dean_." He tried again, keeping his voice to a stage whisper. A mask appeared behind Dean, the Phantom grinning as his knife glinted in the moonlight.

Sam suddenly yanked at the ropes, ignoring the flashes of pain through his raw wrists.

"Dean!" He shouted as the man grew closer and closer to his brother. "DEAN!"

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Sam's ankle had started hurting him around the time his wrists had gone from irritated to full out raw and bloody.

Dean had bandaged them up, but he himself wasn't in a much better state, and at one point he actually passed out.

Sam had a hard time acting like it was less worrisome to watch his brother fall unconscious when he knew it was coming, though he doubted he pulled it off well.

"That fall must've been when they took you away." He whispered, humbly accepting the icepack Sam handed him and gingerly resting it on his aching head.

"We don't have much longer—"

"We have time!" Dean interrupted. "We'll make time."

He wouldn't accept it as even a possibility for them to have to relive those events.

But Sam brought up an even worse point.

"Dean... What if these injuries don't heal the second we gank the other two? What if everything that... _happened_..." He tread carefully. "_Stays_ that way."

"We fixed it last time," Dean said. "And I'll fix it again."

"Dean, you _know_ what the doctor said after—"

"I don't _care_ what the damn doctor said, Sam!" Dean growled. "Screw him! I'm not letting anything happen to you!"

He sat down on the bed and held his head in his hands.

"Dean—"

"I can't do it again, Sammy." Dean muttered. "I can't... watch you go _through_ that. Again."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but instead he lifted his hands and made a few gestures.

**Whether hearing or seeing or smelling or killing**, Sam signed.

**A Winchester is a Winchester**, Dean finished with shaky hands, watery eyes, and a smile on his lips.

"We'll kill the sons of bitches in time, anyway." Sam said.

Dean nodded. "Sure, yeah. No problem."

**BEOKEN RIDGE, 1995**

"DEAN!" Sam shouted and Dean's eyes stayed closed.

So the Phantom took his knife and slowly dug it into the brother's shoulder until Dean did wake up, with flying eyes and a panicked expression that he didn't hide until his gaze focused on Sam.

Then it switched to sorrow.

"Not you too," He groaned.

Sam sniffled and nodded, trying to keep his composure. While Dean didn't look like he held Sam responsible for not helping him, Dean masked his emotions like a pro. Sam could never tell.

"What d'you want from us?" Dean grunted at the Phantom as the man wiped Dean's blood off his knife.

Neither boy expected an answer, but the Phantom's lips curled, and a rasping voice of a smoker whispered out, "I want fun."

It took Sam less time to recover than his brother, seeing as Dean was shaking with enough rage to pummel a varsity football team if it wasn't for the restraints.

"You want _fun_?" Sam blurted. "Fun? You said you wanted _Dean_!"

Dean's gaze turned to Sam, who shrugged.

"Dean..." The Phantom said, tasting the name on his lips. "This one's _Dean_..." He said again, grabbing a fistful of Dean's hair and yanking his head up.

Dean breathed through gritted teeth as he glared at the man.

"And the small one is..." Dean shook his head at Sam but it wasn't necessary. It was a last act of defiance. Their only remaining privacy in the name of a small boy chosen at random to be tormented by men three times his age because they thought it would be "fun."

"That's...okay..." The Phantom hissed. "I know the perfect way to... find out."

He nodded and another man stepped from the shadow, the Surgeon, with brass knuckles on his hand.

"No!" Dean protested, weakly yanking at the ropes holding his wrists above his head.

The Surgeon wheeled his fist back and slammed it into Sam's chest, who gasped in pain as his breath was taken away.

Without giving Sam time to catch his breath, the Surgeon retracted his arm again, sending a punch straight into Sam's jaw.

Dean swore he saw Sam spit out a tooth as the young boy gave the Surgeon a death stare. "What's your name, boy?" The Phantom whispered.

Sam looked away and the knuckles connected with his chin, sending stars whirring around his head and he blinked slowly a few times to gain his focus.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted as Sam's head drooped limp, his feet dragging as he fell motionless. The blood dripped slowly from Sam's mouth.

"Sammy... _Sammy_..." The Phantom tested again.

Sam mustered his courage, dragged his heavy head back up miraculously, and spat a glob of bloody spit on the captor with a cocky half smile.

"It's Sam."

"Do you like _games_, Sam?" Hissed the Phantom as he wiped the bloody saliva off his face and mask.

Sam didn't answer, just turned his head, and Dean felt his heart swell with pride, because after all this, after the fever, the sickness, and this hell, Sam was still as stubborn as ever.

A cry of pain sounded as another fist slammed into Sam's chest. "Stop being a smartass, Sammy..."

Dean was just beginning to wonder where the third guy had gone when a knife appeared across his neck and the smell of a dirty, bloody man in close proximity called his attention away from his brother momentarily.

"Ready, Sam? Let's play."

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

"So the Phantom. His name was..."

"Neil. Neil Holmes. He was buried in the city cemetery." Sam finished.

"That's good. But damn if we weren't just there to gank Pater."

Sam sighed. "I know. He was definitely the guy who attacked us?"

Dean shrugged. "I only saw his face for a minute. And back... _then_... he was always wearing a mask, except when they asked us to identify the bodies."

"We just need to get to him and the other guy before this goes from bad to worse." Sam said. They'd both been knocked out a few times, and bruises peppered both boys' faces. Walking was painful for Dean with his ribs, and he'd opted for laying on the bed while Sam finished researching, saving his energy for the graveyard. "These ghosts are called Rec— ah!" Sam doubled over.

"Sam!" Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You okay?"

Sam nodded but groaned a second later and slipped off the bed and onto his knees.

Dean followed him, swallowing a grimace.

"They're c-called R-R-Rec..." Sam stuttered, wincing. Suddenly, he coughed and leaned slightly into Dean's side, spitting blood into his hand.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice quivered slightly, but not noticeably to his little brother.

He reached up to the side table between the beds and swiped up a tissue, gently wiping Sam's bloody hand.

He felt something solid on Sam's palm and picked it up in the fabric. "A _tooth_? Sam open up."

Sam drowsily opened his mouth and let Dean peer in.

"It was just a filling, we'll fix it later, okay?"

"Ung, ghuh," Sam said, his mouth still open.

"Sammy, close your trap." Sam shut his mouth obediently as another pressure assaulted his chest.

As soon as he could sit up straight, Dean manhandled him back onto the bed and took a moment to gather his own breath and contemplate taking more painkiller two hours early.

Sam swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself to his feet, wavering slowly.

"Woah, woah, _woah_, Sam! What're you doing!"

"Y'know what this means, Dean." Sam spoke through gritted teeth, gripping the backboard of the bed.

"That was the _barn_!" He said, pointing to the floor where blood now stained the carpet. "And you know what's coming soon!"

Dean flinched and nodded as he stood. "I'll be back in a couple hours."

"What? No! Dean, I'm coming!"

"No, you're not."

"You know, Dean! You know you're about to be just as bad off as I am, you already are!"

"Sam—"

"No, Dean! NO!" Sam shouted, finally having had enough. "No way I'm letting you out there alone! It's like you want to die! Just because you made a deal to die in months doesn't mean I don't want you around as long as possible!"

Dean sighed and sat back down. He said nothing, just wiped his face with his hand with a tired expression.

"Sam-" He spoke brokenly. He seemed to be testing what to say next in his head, but a glance up to his panting brother staring down at him worriedly despite the illness was enough to stop him in his tracks.

"Go get in the Impala, I'll be right there."

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Sam gulped as a ratty cloth was tied around his eyes, stopping him from seeing the same circumstance take place on Dean's side.

"If either of you boys wants to stop whatever is happening to the other, just let me know. The consequences will be worse for you in return, but I've detected quite the relationship between you two..."

Sam shivered when the voice suddenly appeared hot in his ear. "I bet you'd do... _Anything_."

Not more than a few seconds later Sam's heart tore from the inside out as the worst screams imaginable came out of his brother, or at least Sam thought it was Dean. He couldn't be sure; he'd never heard Dean in so much pain before.

Sam could only guess what they were doing as the life-changing sound of Dean shrieking made him tremble. "Stop!" He shouted. "_Stop it_!"

Surprisingly, his request was answered. Dean's screams were replaced with heavy panting. He pulled at the ropes halfheartedly, hearing a chuckle at his poor escape attempt.

"See?" A voice spoke. "Wasn't so hard. It's interesting, the way you worry about your brother's safety more than your own... I wonder if it's mutual."

Sam just grunted, mind elsewhere. "Don't you touch him, you son of a bitch." Dean threatened breathlessly. "Or you'll know the taste of your own insides."

A hearty laugh sounded coldly through the barn. Sam shivered, from the cold and the eery voice.

"Would you like to go again, then?" Dean was asked. Sam didn't know who spoke, but it didn't sound like the Phantom. The voice was louder and more cheerful.

"Dean, no!" Sam protested.

"Yes," Dean replied desperately.

"But that's not fun, is it?" The voice asked. Sam didn't know if that was rhetorical so he kept quiet.

A pressure hit the side of Sam's head. He heard screaming and crying and in a dizzying haze of excruciating pain he neglected to realize the sound was coming from himself.

"SAMMY!" He heard, but it sounded warbled as his left ear rang. When he was just managing to regain composure, the fist slammed into his right ear and it started all over again.

Sam felt tears trickling beneath the blindfold and a hot liquid in his ears that smelled suspiciously like blood.

The ringing in his ears was replaced with silence. Sam didn't know how much time had passed, didn't care so long as the pain went away.

"Dean?" Sam whimpered. He couldn't hear himself speak. Was he dead? Was this heaven? Or Hell? No, he was in too much pain to be dead.

But that meant...

He tried again, as loud as he could. "DEEAAAN!" Sam let a small sob escape, or what he hoped was small.

_He couldn't hear a thing._

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**Dun dun... I hope it became apparent at my cruel cliffie that when Sam and Dean 'signed' I really meant signed, as in sign language. But more on that next chapter! I appreciate any and all reviews, favorites, follows, etcetera. You guys really are the best.**_  
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	7. Chapter 7

**Hello everyone! Two weeks with a cliffie! Sorry about that... thanks so much for all favorites, follows, reviews, etc. I really appreciate them, even when I don't get a chance to reply.**

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**Previously**

****_He tried again, as loud as he could. "DEEAAAN!" Sam let a small sob escape, or what he hoped was small._

_He couldn't hear a thing._

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Dean raced towards the graveyard as his brother rattled off the two plot locations, ignoring the occasional suggestion that Sam do the driving.

"Just _hurry_." Sam said. "I don't need you passing out on the highway."

Dean rolled his eyes, but agreed, and sped up minimally to cut time even further.

He pulled in on the main road. Sam was out the door and at the trunk, grabbing flashlights and shovels by the time Dean stepped out.

"Don't hurt yourself, Sam." Dean spoke half-seriously as his brother hastily shoved the necessities into a duffel.

"Let's just go before _you_ get hurt," Sam mumbled, brushing past.

Sam sounded okay, he really did, but he was also good at hiding things, and right now he was obviously hiding worry.

Swamped in his own world of protectiveness, Dean had failed to realize the feeling of wanting the other to come out of this uninjured might be mutual.

So Dean hurried to catch up and casually knocked his shoulder against Sam's as they walked.

"We're going to be _fine_, Sam." He said, wincing despite himself as his side stung.

"Yeah," Sam said, eyeing his movements. "We're already_ just fine_. I'm limping, you're barely upright..."

"I'll be-"

"Fine. I know, but... Let's just hurry, okay?"

Dean nodded and they trudged on in silence until Sam pointed his flashlight at a cheap gravestone.

"Here."

They had reached the grave of Neil Holmes. Sam shivered subconsciously as Dean stuck his shovel into the frozen earth and began digging.

"This ends tonight." Dean muttered, watching his brother sway with a hand firmly gripping the tombstone.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Dean's blindfold obstructed his sight, but nothing stopped him from hearing the terrible screams coming from his brother.

"SAMMY!" He shouted in anguish, and eventually the noise came to a grinding halt.

"Dean," Sam said, but his voice sounded funny. It didn't sound... _Sam_.

"Look, Sam, it'll be okay, alright? I'll get us out of th-"

"_DEEEAAANN_!"

"Sam! I'm right _here_!" Dean said earnestly. Sam let out a choking sob.

"Take my blindfold off." Dean snarled.

A hearty laugh sounded. "Like that'll happen."

"Take the damn blindfold off, or so help me God I will shove each of you bitch's faces up the other man's ass."

"Just to letcha see what your brother looks like? Alright," The blindfold was yanked down, and Dean gasped.

Sam barely hung on, unconscious now, bloody streaks leaking from his ears and mixing with that of his most certainly broken nose, black eye, and bleeding temple.

"What the hell did you do to him?" Dean whispered. The Phantom smiled cockily, but Dean was done with this crap.

He bit his lip, taking a deep look at each man. "Come here." He growled to the Phantom, who took the step forward, considering himself to be in total control of the situation.

With all his strength, Dean swung his knee up and slammed it into the Phantom's crotch.

He dropped the guy, his booted foot connecting with the man's face, knocking him out.

All in about four seconds.

The Surgeon stepped forward next, his eyes sparkling, a knife glinting from his hand. Dean pulled his knees up, hanging painfully by his wrists, and yelled as he shoved the Surgeon backwards with his feet.

He heard the Robber behind him, and twisted around in time to head butt the man as he felt the stinging pain of a knife brush his abdomen as Robber fell.

Within seconds, the Surgeon was back on him with a fist swinging towards his already throbbing head, but Dean was pumping with adrenaline and kneed the Surgeon once in the chest, once in the face, and then kicked him in the mouth, leaving his own hands raw and bloody and the Surgeon screaming like a little girl.

"You took my brother's tooth out, you son of a bitch," Dean growled as the Surgeon fell to the ground, spitting his own teeth out.

Dean's foot was at face level, so he landed one more between the eyes, knocking the man out cold.

All was quiet as Dean yanked his hands out of the ropes, sucking in a shout of pain as his top layer of skin mostly tore off on the coarse farmer's rope that had been left in the barn.

He paused only long enough to gather his balance before tripping through the hay to where Sam hung.

"Sammy..." Dean muttered sadly as he untied Sam's hands and gently caught the young boy in his arms.

Sam's eyes opened slightly when Dean pulled the blindfold off, gazing up at Dean's with the hint of a smile of relief. Suddenly, they snapped completely open and he let out a terrified yelp.

Dean flipped Sam onto unsteady feet and stood in front of him as he wheeled around.

The Robber lunged with the knife, but Dean ducked, grabbing the hand on its way back around and, with lack of options, plunging it into the Robber's chest.

He hesitated for a moment before yanking it back out and wiping it off on his pants.

"Sam, come here." Dean ordered, not wanting Sam out of sight as he dealt with the men.

Sam didn't move.

"Sam, come 'ere." He tried again, grabbing the Phantom by the armpits and dragging him behind a post, still not facing his little brother.

Sam still didn't move so Dean looked up. Sam's face was streaming tears where he stood, one hand gripping a beam for support, the other touching his left ear gently.

"Sammy?" Dean dropped the man with a thump and limped to his brother. "Sam, what's wrong? What hurts?"

Sam shook with sobs as Dean gripped his shoulders, shaking his head.

"Sam, talk to me!"

Sam sniffled and took a deep breath. "Dean," He said, and once again it sounded nothing like himself. Sam didn't know if he was shouting or whispering, but at Dean's flinch, he tried to lower his voice. "I can't h-_hear_ y-you."

Dean's eyes widened, changing to an expression of worry, sadness, pity. It was the look of a lost, exhausted older brother who had no idea what to do.

"What d'you mean?" Dean asked. "You can't hear my voice right now?"

Sam nodded. Wasn't it ironic that deaf sounded so close to death and he felt like both?

"Can you hear anything? A buzzing? Is it muffled? Do your ears hurt?"

Sam's chin quivered as he shook his head again, but in confusion. Dean was talking too fast, too many unfamiliar words to read his lips.

Dean pulled Sam into an awkward, barely touching hug. He pulled back. "Stay here," He said, holding his hand up for emphasis.

Sam nodded and Dean helped him sit on the ground.

Dean cast him one more cautious glance before returning to the three men.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

"Dean, you start on the next grave." Sam said.

"Rory Moriarty." He added, as he handed Dean a flashlight and grabbed the second shovel.

"Say _that_ five times fast," Dean mumbled as he swung it across the graveyard.

Sam eased himself in, setting to work easily on the half-dug grave. He knew the only reason Dean had agreed to let him do anything was because he wanted this over with before it went from bad to worse.

"Here!" He heard Dean call, and he shot his head up like a meerkat to see Dean waving his flashlight three rows back. Sam watched for a minute as Dean got busy before getting back to work himself.

His wrist was killing him, so Sam took a break every once in a while, calling out to Dean to make sure he was still conscious.

Suddenly, a piercing yell filled the night. Sam dropped the shovel, his wrist screaming in protest as he pulled himself up and out.

"Dean! I'm coming!" Sam shouted as he tripped his way through the dark. His only answer was another bone-chilling shout of pain.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

"Be _careful_." Sam forced out self-consciously as Dean stood on the stacked apple crates, groping the rafters for his gun.

"I'll be fine, Sam." Dean mumbled, rolling his eyes. Sam didn't retort, and Dean almost turned to ask him if he was okay before realizing.

_God, Sammy, I'm so sorry_. He forgot. But Sam hadn't seen his mouth._ No harm, no foul_, Dean thought bitterly.

His hand touched cold metal and Dean laughed in triumph, flashing a barely-conscious Sam a smile before shoving the butt of the gun in his waistband and climbing down.

The men were as good as dead, or so Dean hoped, locked up in a horse stall and he wasn't about to tell anyone their location... Just yet.

He would've killed them, _still_ wanted to kill them, but he had more important matters to tend to.

"Come on, Sam, we're safe now." He muttered as he scooped the thin eleven-year-old into his arms.

Sam's eyes opened and closed slowly in a daze, gazing at Dean.

"You'll be fine, I'll be fine, we'll all be—" Sam took his cold hand and pressed it against Dean's throat lightly. "What are you doing?" Dean asked, though Sam was looking at his neck more than his lips.

At his voice, Sam closed his eyes and smiled. Dean did too at the sight of happiness on his brother's face. "We'll be fine." Dean whispered, the vibrations tickling the gently placed hand of a small boy, who felt safe for the first time it what felt like forever.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Dean was lying on his back, arms splayed out and panting heavily.

Sam collapsed to his knees, staring into Dean's eyes until they looked back with recognition.

"Dean? What happened?" And then it hit him like a bombshell. This was it. Dean had refused all those years ago to tell him what was the matter, what had caused the terrifying screams of agony that had haunted Sam's nightmares for years to come.

One of the last sounds he'd heard.

And then in the hospital Dad wouldn't tell him. Either that or he physically _couldn't_ because Sam was still pretty broken, and communication skills were lacking.

Either way, Sam had to find out a month later, and it had almost torn his family apart even more.

He was surprised when he looked up from his brother to see that Dean's grave was almost completely dug too.

Sam knew, as he frantically grabbed Dean's jacket in his fist, he should have called Bobby. Should've never taken this job. He should've left the past in the past.

Because now the Recurrent, as the ghost subspecies was called, was messing with them, like it tended to do with surviving victims.

_That's_ what he'd been trying to tell Dean when the Barn restarted. Recurrents feed on your emotions. They want a re-do, and they'll wear you down until you die. Just repeating the entire event over and over and over.

Thank God they were salted and burned like the average ghost.

"Dean," Sam grunted, shaking Dean slightly by his hold on his brother's jacket. "Dean!"

Dean shook his head.

"Dean come on!" Sam shouted. He glanced from one grave to another.

Dean shouted out a flurry of panted words Sam missed in his haste to follow Dean's shocked gaze.

A ghost flickered in one hundred feet from the brothers, and all at once they made up their minds.

"Go! Go!" Dean shouted with his remaining energy, taking as much time to stand up as Sam did to return to his grave.

Sam smashed the spade into the coffin top and pulled away enough to reveal the face of either the Phantom or the Surgeon. He sprinkled gasoline and salt as a ghost appeared, a ghost of one who had the exact stocky build of the Phantom.

With a smirk and a raised hand, it pressed Sam into the freshly dug wall. He felt like he was being crushed, and he gasped for air like a fish out of water.

Sam fought the force and slowly reached his hand into his pocket, shaking with effort. The lighter flicked almost instantly, one of the few things in his favor in such a horrible week.

And was it a week? Or was it a month? A couple days?

Sam had lost track of time over sleepless nights. He flung the lighter, pulled himself out of the hole and away from the distracted ghost just in time as the fire engulfed the coffin.

Dean watched Sam's shaggy head appear while digging out his matches. Sam stood and smiled as the fire lit his tired face and Dean threw the match into his grave with his last inkling of energy.

He turned to grin back at Sam, because they'd been so close to the worst of the worst, but they'd made it out alive.

But when his gaze returned to his little brother, Sam's face was bloodied and his smile had turned into a shocked open mouth with wide eyes.

Dean was already ignoring the pain blasting through every part of his body as he sprinted towards Sam, screaming his name.

Sam's eyes rolled back and he fell in the direction of the blazing grave.

* * *

**I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry for the cliffie, especially because I won't add until next weekend, maybe the next. I hope you liked it! Serious brotherly moments next chapter! **


	8. Chapter 8

**You guys don't even understand how proud of myself I am. I hurt my hand pretty bad and couldn't type for a bit. All the same, your comments and follows and love mean so much to me. Thanks for sticking around!**

* * *

**Previously**

****_Dean was already ignoring the pain blasting through every part of his body as he sprinted towards Sam, screaming his name._

_Sam's eyes rolled back and he fell in the direction of the blazing grave._

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Dean stumbled out of the barn with Sam in his arms, carrying him bridal style.

It was scary how limp Sam was, the way his arm dangled but Dean didn't have the strength right now to place it back on the boy's chest.

He didn't really know when Sam had passed out, just that one moment he was leaning against Dean with his bloodshot eyes open, the next with them closed.

"We've almost made it, Sammy." Dean spoke to no one in particular. Not like Sam would hear him, he thought.

He stumbled through the snow on shaky legs, the snow seeping into his boots and the lower half of his jeans.

That's when Dean realized how cold Sam was. It was astonishing how a boy with such a fever could be shivering so badly. Sam was soaked, must've been running towards Dean through the snow in his socks by the looks of it. His sweatpants were completely wet, his body icy in Dean's arms.

He's _not_ dead, Dean chanted. He's _breathing_. But still, Sam's body felt so cold.

Half of him thought he should really just soldier on until he reached the cabin. It wasn't that far, but a meter felt like a mile in these conditions.

The other half of him wanted to stop right where he stood. He would give his arms a rest and rip these sweatpants off of Sam before he got hypothermia.

Which got him thinking, what if the symptoms Sam was experiencing weren't from a fever, but something much worse?

Sam moaned softly and Dean glanced down in time to see him grimace in pain and ball a fist up in the material of Dean's shirt, which had always been Sam's version of squeezing a finger in times of pain.

Dean used the gesture as fuel to walk faster and stumbled towards the lit porch light of the cabin.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

"SAM!" Dean shouted as Sam fell forward. He hurdled the gravestone and in an act of desperation reached out and managed to grab hold of Sam's limp hand, gasping at the heaviness of the tall man.

He yanked with all his might until Sam tilted backwards and landed on Dean's chest, causing him to make a noise he didn't think humanly possible.

Dean looked down and yelped in surprise, tumbling on top of Sam and pulling his flaming shoe off.

He stomped it into the grass until only smoke rose slowly off of the toe.

Dean took short breaths as he crawled back over to Sam, worriedly quiet during the whole event. "Sam? Sammy?"

He gently patted Sam's cheeks until he came to. Sam grunted and tried to swat Dean's hand away.

"Open your eyes," Dean ordered. Begged, he thought. Sam did nothing.

Dean shook him again. This time Sam responded and looked up at Dean slowly.

"Let me help you sit up," Dean said, and with his words came a shadowy sad expression across Sam's face and Dean knew deep down.

Sam gave him a tilt of the head, a painfully familiar look, a 'What did you say?'

So Dean lifted his hands from Sam and signed.

**Let me help you.**

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Dean almost cried when he finally reached the back steps of the small cottage that had been their home most recently.

He stepped inside the open door and set Sam down on the couch, trying to ignore the beat up rocking chair, the scalding remains of a cell phone in the fire, or the bloodstain on the carpet that was obviously his.

The crackling fire would warm Sam up, Dean hoped as he plucked drenched socks from the boy's feet. But he really needed to get his brother out of his wet clothes first and foremost.

Not wanting to leave Sam alone, he once again scooped up the kid and shakily brought him to the bedroom.

He set Sam down on the bed and grabbed his bag, quickly running across the hall for Sam's. The sheets were still turned back as if an eleven year old had just gotten up to ask for milk.

Dean shook the memories from his head in disbelief and rushed back to his brother.

"Back to the warmth, huh, kid?" Dean spoke softly, both his and Sam's duffels over his shoulder, his arms shaking with the weight of Sam in his arms. He was ready to collapse by the time he reached the living room.

He set Sam down as gently as possible before reaching for the kitchen scissors and cutting his shirt off. By the looks of Sam's face there was no reason to be pulling that shirt over his head.

Sam whimpered when Dean lifted him up to take the shirt the rest of the way off, the fabric sticking to his wounds.

"Sam?" Dean asked. Sam didn't respond and seemed to relax back into unconsciousness.

Dean hissed at the sight of Sam's stomach. Big blue and purple marks and most definitely a broken rib or two, Dean considered when lightly pressing Sam's chest.

He rummaged until he found a warm-looking sweatshirt of his own and a pair of Sam's old jeans, the only pants he could find that might fit Sam.

_I really need to take him shopping,_ Dean thought. _When we're long gone from this town_.

There wasn't anything he could do with his limited First Aid supply, most of which had been used up in the bathroom fix-up earlier that night.

God, was it still the same day? It felt like years.

Dean rolled the sweatshirt into an O, hands around the neckline, and slowly and carefully slipping it over Sam's neck.

"Sh... Sorry, buddy." Dean whispered when Sam began to moan again as he stuck his arms through. His eye was puffy, and the cut on his neck was beginning to seep through the gauze. His jaw could easily be broken, but Dean wouldn't know.

Next, he slipped Sam's sweatpants off, which were, if possible, even wetter. He considered leaving Sam's boxers on too until he realized how cold and drenched they were.

So Dean slipped Sam's boxers off, too. Any other occasion and Dean would be teasing his brother about the intimacy, but instead Sam was bleeding and moaning and shivering and hurting and Dean didn't give it a second thought. He'd been changing Sam's diapers since he was four, after all.

He'd gotten Sam's jeans back up past his ankles when he heard a noise and with the reflexes of a hunter, he reached his arm into his waistband for the gun as he swiveled, the machine cocked and aimed by the time he'd turned around.

The Surgeon winked.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

"Are you _sure_ you're okay?" Dean asked when Sam was on his feet, looking curiously down at his shoeless foot.

Sam didn't say anything. "Sam—" Dean began before stopping himself. Damn, it was going to take time to realize Sammy couldn't hear him.

He touched Sam's shoulder and the younger man jumped. "You okay?" He asked again when Sam was looking at him. Sam hesitated before nodding.

"We'll figure it out." Dean said. "It'll be okay."

He slung Sam's arm over his shoulder and together they walked back to the Impala, Dean dragging two dirty shovels and a slight loss of hope.

**************

The brothers fell into old routine when they got back to the motel. Dean looked Sam over wordlessly and bandaged any new cuts before taking a look at his ears.

"_Damn_, Sam." Dean muttered. He wiped the blood away and studied Sam's expression.

He gripped Sam's arm until the man made eye contact. "I'll fix this." Dean promised.

**If you say so,** Sam signed.

"Already back to not trusting your voice?" Dean asked, signing as he talked. They hadn't done this in a while, thirteen years in fact. Signing and speaking was part of how Sam had learned to lip read.

"I sound stupid!" Sam shouted suddenly, his voice coming out warbled, and Dean didn't have the heart to ask if he'd meant it that loud or just not known.

"Get some sleep, Sammy." Dean ordered after a moment, nodding at the bed.

**At least let me check you over first**, Sam signed, stubbornly refusing to speak.

"Fine."

Sam limped over. Dean swatted his hand away when Sam started lifting his shirt. "I can do it myself." Dean protested with a scowl.

With a hiss, Dean pulled his shirt over his head, revealing dark black and blue marks down his rib cage. Worst of all, though, was the big injury. The one that had Dean screaming in pain on the night of the barn.

**Dean!** Sam signed the gesture he and Dean had made up for his brother's name. **Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?**

Sam sighed worriedly, rushing to grab First Aid materials. It took almost twenty minutes for him to sanitize, stitch, and bandage Dean's chest, but by the time he was finished, the word the three men had carved painfully into Dean was currently out of sight, though it was far from out of mind.

**Better?** Sam signed. Dean nodded.

**Sleep, Sammy**. He returned, the familiar sign for Sam's nickname drawing a smile from the younger boy's lips.

**Only if you do**. Sam replied stubbornly. Dean rolled his eyes and made a show of sitting on the bed and swinging his legs and boots up, too.

Sam nodded and lay down on his own bed, and before long he was fast asleep and dreaming of noise.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Dean reached his left hand behind and touched Sam's leg, an anchor to his brother as he moved to protect the unconscious boy.

"Get the hell away." Dean growled. "I have a gun, I will blow your brains out."

The Surgeon laughed, looking behind Dean.

Dean turned and fired twice at the second man approaching Sam with a knife, the gunshots snapping Sam's eyes open.

The Phantom jumped back, but not before a bullet grazed his shoulder.

"_Terrible_ shot, Dean." The Surgeon teased menacingly. "Too bad we hurt the tiny one. Maybe _he_ could do better."

Dean growled, turning the gun from one man to the other. He put his left arm under Sam's back and counted to three in his head.

_One_.  
Dean aimed at the Surgeon.

_Two_.  
He sent a warning glance at the Phantom, daring him to come closer.

_Three_.  
Dean shot the Surgeon in the side, but both men began advancing.

He swiveled around and managed to shoot the Phantom on the hip, halting the stranger.

Sam screamed and Dean turned and shot the Surgeon at point blank, the bullet lodging itself into the man's temple.

"Sam, can you walk?" Dean shouted, turning to look at Sam as the Phantom limped towards him.

Sam looked confused, so Dean swept him into a fireman's hold and aimed the pistol at the Phantom.

"Don't you come closer," Dean spat. He was out of bullets, but the Phantom didn't need to know that.

He felt Sam's hand weakly creep it's way up Dean's neck to feel him speak. At least the boy was conscious.

In desperation, Dean turned and bolted, fleeing into the front yard, the crunch of his boots on the snow hardly audible beneath his harsh breathing.

He didn't stop to see if the Phantom was following them, just ran until he passed the Impala with its flat tires and lack of weapons, mocking him.

He ran and stumbled down the steep road until he couldn't see or hear the Phantom anymore. Dean slowed to a walk.

He was so tired he didn't realize Sam was staring up at him.

"Dean?" He whispered.

Dean forced a smile and tried to ignore the blood caked on his little brother's face. "Dean, 're you ok?"

Come to think of it, Dean was kind of out of breath. His ribs hurt like a bitch, for starters.

"I'll be fine." Dean responded, looking Sam in the eye and accidentally tripping over a tree root. "We'll both... We'll both... Be..."

With no warning, Dean's eyes rolled back and his arms lost strength as both boys tumbled toward the ground and unconsciousness.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Once Sam was asleep, Dean decided it was well past time to give Bobby a call.

"Hey, Dean, how's the hunt?" Bobby asked good-naturedly when he picked up.

"Not so good, Bobby." Dean began. "Sammy's hurt."

"What? _Damnit_, Dean. You still in Broken Ridge?"

Dean nodded.

"Dean?"

"Oh, yeah. Yes."

"I'll be there soon." Bobby promised, not even waiting to be invited.

"No, no, you don't have to come, Bobby." Dean sighed as he sat down and rubbed his temples.

"Then why the hell did you call me, boy?"

Dean closed his eyes. "I-I don't- I don't—"

"I'll be there as soon as possible." Bobby affirmed.

"Thank you," Dean said, the strain evident in his voice.

"That's what I'm here for, Dean." Bobby replied.

Sam tossed and turned in his bed, and Dean tossed him an anxious glance.

"Gotta go Bobby, Sam—"

"How hurt is he? Are you hurt?"

Sam began moaning and panting, the sheets tangled in his thrashing legs.

"I've gotta go."

"Wait, Dean—" But the boy had already hung up. "Idgits." Bobby muttered sourly.

* * *

**Look at me, not even leaving you with a big cliffie :) Thanks for your continued support, guys! Seeya next week! **


	9. Chapter 9

**Do you remember me? Because I never forgot you. Honestly, every day I didn't write I felt really bad. But here's the thing: I have a really good excuse, but as it is very personal to me I'd rather not share it with strangers so... But anyway, I figured I'd pull myself back to my feet and use writing as a pick-me-up. So here I am. I will be adding to ****_As the Years Go By_**** too, which had an even ****_longer_**** break if I remember correctly.**

**Oops.**

**So before I start, 2 things:**

**One, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry**

**Two, I'm really sorry I'm really sorry**

**Oh, also, minor recap because it's been so long: As you remember, Sam and Dean were left at home because Sam was recovering from a fever while John went just across the border to help Caleb and Jim on a quick case. But weird things started happening at the cabin, and Sam and Dean quickly realize that they're not alone. Three men are terrorizing them. One man, wearing a surgeon's mask is called the Surgeon. Another in a ski mask is the Robber. The third man, in a Phantom of the Opera-like mask is the Phantom.**

**They try to escape (unsuccessfully) and find themselves in the barn being terrorized for no reason other than they're kids and these men are sick bastards. Sam hears them torturing his brother, and that's the last sound he hears as he's punched rather painfully in the ears. He loses his hearing.**

**Sam and Dean manage to escape (for real this time) and Dean's managing to kinda-carry Sam when he blacks out.**

**Now flash forward to 2007. Dean's got a deal on his head but they've taken the time out of finding answers to do a simple salt 'n burn for Bobby. But man that ghost's name sounds familiar and, oh yeah, it's one of the men who tried to kill them in that cabin years ago. They think it'll be easy- if not slightly uncomfortable due to horrible memories- but that's not the case, because these are Recurrents. They return to survived victims when they're close enough and pretty much force them to re-live the injuries and consequences of their previous encounter.**

**Sam loses his hearing again and neither man is at 100%, but they manage to burn the bones. But the problem is, the symptoms aren't going away. The boys are still getting worse despite properly disposing of the three men, so Bobby's called in to help them out...**

* * *

_With no warning, Dean's eyes rolled back and his arms lost strength as both boys tumbled toward the ground and unconsciousness._

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

"D'n," Sam croaked, blinking the frost from his eyelids as he tried to sit up. He sniffed and shook his head, snow falling from his long hair and shoulders and onto his brother.

_Onto his brother._

"Dean!" Sam cried, instantly trying to move off of the older boy, but it hurt like hell and Sam grew dizzy from the weak attempt.

He shook Dean, tears now streaming down his face with a lack of dignity that came with being so tired and cold and sick and scared and twelve.

Worst of all was the deafening silence. It wasn't like study hall at school where, the second the bell rang, noise broke the quietness until Sam had another headache. What he wouldn't give for that right now.

Instead, he faced knowing that he couldn't hear, and _wouldn't_ hear anytime soon, even if there was noise around him.

Sam laid his head on Dean's chest and felt for a heartbeat, his hand balled in the material of Dean's jacket.

"Help!" He shouted, as loud as possible. And he knew it must have been loud because the birds flew off the trees, and after screaming for someone for five minutes, Dean held tightly to his chest, Sam's throat was raw and tight. It wasn't until Sam had screamed himself hoarse that he realized with a growing sense of dread that he had advertised his location to everyone— including the Phantom.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

After hanging up on a crotchety Bobby, Dean rushed to Sam's side, shaking him on the shoulder and shouting his name until Sam finally woke up.

Sam's eyes opened and he clutched Dean's wrist where it lay on his own arm.

**You okay?** Dean signed.

Sam nodded.

**What were you dreaming about?**

Sam took in Dean's bruised features with watery eyes. **I couldn't hear you, so I couldn't help you,** he finally admitted.

Dean pursed his lips in empathy and squeezed next to Sam on the thin bed.

**Well, guess what?** Dean signed. God, it was like riding a bike.** I'm not going anywhere. But you, my friend, need to see a doctor.**

Sam sighed and gave Dean a sad, pleading look.

"Nope, no puppy dogs," Dean spoke simultaneously. "You're going."

Sam nodded in acceptance. He smiled mischievously.

"What?" Dean asked.

**If I'm getting a check up, so are you.**

**No way in Hell!**

**Then it's a good thing you're not in Hell.** Sam retorted, his smile falling.** Not yet.**

Dean's own smile faded as Sam dragged his teary-eyed gaze to the floor.

"Don't talk like that, Sammy." Dean said. "There's no way I'm leaving you behind in this condition. We'll figure everything out. Everything. Go to bed, we'll head up in the morning."

He stood up and grabbed his towel. Sam's gaze met his and Dean repeated his instructions.

**Try to go to bed,** he signed. Sam nodded sadly as the bathroom door closed on his brother's receding frame. Dean was talking too fast, signing too badly, but they were both amateurs. He'd hoped Dean had changed his mine about jumping head first into the hellfire, but he'd guessed wrong, or hadn't deciphered right.

When Dean fixed everything, they'd have a real heart to heart. For now, Sam shivered and pulled the covers up to his chin.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

John Winchester had already called the house twelve times.

_Twelve times._

He'd been four hours gone when he decided he needed to turn around. Call him a worried bastard, he was either going to find his boys hurt or find his boys in terrible need of a lesson on picking up the damn phone.

"Hey, Caleb. Look, I need to check on the boys."

Caleb stared at him from the drivers seat. "Are you kidding me? Jim's already there! We can't turn around!"

"Then go on without me." John rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Look, I'm running on empty, and Dean won't answer and Sam's sick so I should really—"

"Let's check on your boys Winchester." Caleb interrupted with a sigh of harsh affection. "I don't want to see your scrawny ass getting us killed because you're distracted, got it?"

John smiled. "Yeah, thanks Caleb. I appreciate it."

The boys were probably fine. But it wouldn't hurt to check.

Sam wasn't really sure when he'd passed out again, but when he woke up, the morning was slowly approaching and the sky had an almost pink hue that would have been pretty if Sam cared about that sort of thing right now.

Dean was still out cold, and, speaking of cold, his brother's skin was like ice. Sam was shivering horrendously himself, but he could barely lift his head, let alone seek warmth as shelter.

Sam lay and watched the puff of cold air dissipate with each of Dean's shallow breaths, the small clouds lulling him quickly back into unconsciousness...

Sam grunted as he opened his eyes with difficulty. He felt like he'd been asleep for ages.

It was with a frown that Sam realized he was still in the snowed over driveway, laying on Dean's chest.

Immediately, Sam wondered what had woken him up. He had this feeling in his gut that something wasn't right and he took a worried scan of the area as much as he could.

Something in the forest to his right caught the boy's eye. A glint of a knife. Sam gasped, making out the shape of the Phantom, who froze the moment Sam made eye contact.

"P-please!" Sam shouted brokenly. "Stop!" But his plea egged the man on. With an evil grin, the Phantom stalked towards the inept brothers.

"I'm here, Dean." Sam whispered into his unconscious brother's ear as he hugged him close. He didn't want to watch.

Sam buried his head in Dean's jacket, waiting for the inevitable pain that was about to strike. But nothing happened.

Sam waited.

And waited.

It felt like hours, but it couldn't have been more than a minute.

He felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Sam yelped and jumped, his fists up confidently even as his muscles and bones screamed in protest.

"D-dad?" Sam voiced.

John smiled sadly as he took in the state of both his boys. Sam's gaze was locked on the body of the Phantom and the discarded rifle by John's side.

"Are you okay, Sam?" He asked seriously. Sam's pale fist was still clutching Dean's jacket.

"Sam?" Sam said nothing, eyes glued to the body as he shook.

"Sam!" Sam was still moving, he just acted like he was purposefully ignoring John. Then, for the first time, John really acknowledged the dried blood trailing from his son's ears.

"Oh my god... _Sam_." John reached his hands up and clapped loudly by Sam's ear, but the twelve year old didn't flinch or look in his direction.

He turned Sam around and pulled him into a tight hug. "I'm so sorry, kiddo. We'll fix this. We'll fix you two." He promised.

Sam's hand just crept up while John spoke. He closed his eyes and felt the vibrations of his father's voice with his palm.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Bobby arrived fairly quickly, and Dean was tempted to ask the older man how in the hell he managed that, but figured he didn't want to know.

Sam was watching TV with subtitles when Bobby knocked on the door. Dean stood up abruptly and Sam tensed immediately.

"Someone knocked." Dean spoke and signed. "Probably Bobby."

Sam cocked his head. Dean hadn't mentioned Bobby coming over, but he was glad all the same.

Dean smiled and opened the door wider for Bobby to enter. He clapped Dean on the back and held him back by his shoulders.

"Well, you're a sight for sore eyes, kid."

"Nice to see you too, Bobby."

"Hi, Sam," Bobby waved at Sam, who had perked up, but hadn't left the bed.

Sam nodded a shy response.

"Dean," Bobby whispered. "He okay? You okay?"

"Nothing I can't handle, old man, except... Sam had a bad run in with the Recurrent. He, uh, he can't hear."

"What did you say?" Bobby asked in disbelief.

"Very funny."

Bobby rolled his eyes and glanced over Dean's shoulder. "Nothing? Really?"

"Yeah, it happened... It happened last time. But it healed. But happening again... I don't know. Maybe it won't heal as well."

Dean startled at a hand on his shoulder. "Sam! Didn't hear you come over!"

Sam narrowed his eyes but continued.

**You two gonna stand by the door or take a seat?** He signed.

"You two sign?" Bobby waved his finger from Sam to Dean in surprise.

"And read lips." Dean added.

Sam nodded and gestured something to Dean.

"What'd he say?"

"He said stop acting like a sissy and take off that hat for once." Dean translated.

Sam slapped Dean on the arm while furiously shaking his head at Bobby. "Come sit." Sam said, his voice choppy and uncoordinated. Bobby politely pretended not to notice.

"Thank you." He said rather loudly and Dean rolled his eyes, catching Sam's eye and gesturing with his hands over his ears like he heard something loud.

Sam sniggered. They'd gotten pretty amused by people raising their voices at Sam long ago. Then it just became annoying.

Bobby pulled up a chair while Dean and Sam sat on the edges of their beds closest to the older man.

"Dean, there is no way you got out of this unscathed, boy." Bobby admonished, raising an eyebrow and daring him to disagree.

"Well, not exactly, but Sam..."

"Dean! You listen to me, you too Sam," he added. "I understand that you each care for each other greatly, and you would die for each other. But if the other is going to live, obviously, there's no reason in the- what the hell are you doing?" Bobby stopped.

"I'm signing." Dean replied through gritted teeth. He was stressed and he was angry and he was tired, and if anyone messed with him he'd mess them up just as well. "You're talking too fast for him."

Sam shot him a fleeting smile of gratitude.

"Oh. Right. Sorry, Sam."

"Yeah, okay. Anyway, Sam cleaned me up pretty good. And it's late. Sammy-boy here's probably pretty tired. He just doesn't want to speak up."

He smiled and glanced at Sam, who was currently staring at his toes.

He knocked Sam on the knee.

"You ready for bed, kiddo?"

"'m not a kid." Sam grumbled. Dean shook his head and gestured at Sam to get under the covers. Sam rolled on his stomach and shoved his hands underneath the pillow, past the point of arguing.

Dean ruffled Sam's hair and sat back down.

"You should've taken him to the hospital." Bobby admonished.

"I can't, Bobby," Dean replied with exasperation. "Police're on our trail and I just can't chance it. Unless things get worse, we'll make do."

Bobby nodded understandably. "You know, Dean, you look like you could use some major sleep, too."

"I'm okay."

"It wasn't a suggestion," Bobby retorted. Dean protested tiredly, but kicked off his boots and climbed in the opposite bed.

He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Sam felt the warmth and comfort of his father's arms jostling him until they were gone and he was cold once again.

He forced his eyes open to a squint, blinking past the snow. He was instantly blinded by the flashing lights. Two ambulances, at least three police cars, and a fire truck stood in the street.

He felt cold fingers try to pry his from Dean's shirt as another laid a warm, thick blanket across him.

"No." Sam grunted. The hand pushed harder at his frozen fingers. "No!" He shouted.

Someone must have mentioned that he was awake, because he felt strong arms at his side. But whether it was his dad or the paramedics was inconclusive. Sam felt so alone with his eyes closed. Couldn't see, couldn't hear, and the only contact with Dean he had was currently being stripped away by someone with really prying fingers.

Sam forced his eyes completely open, his father's stressed face looking back at him.

"No!" Sam cried. A paramedic next to him had managed to release Dean from his grip. "No!"

His dad shouted something to the paramedic and Sam watched as Dean was loaded into an ambulance, packed tight with strangers touching him and cutting off his shirt and screaming things and Sam cried out in despair from the snow.

A female paramedic grabbed his arm and was trying to talk to him but Sam didn't know what she was trying to say. He watched the doors to Dean's ambulance close.

"Dean!" He screamed, his breath short and fast. "DEAN!" He yanked his arm away from the lady and felt a prick in his other arm.

Everything turned black and Sam Winchester was alone.

* * *

**I know, that was kind of mean of me. "Sorry I was gone. I can only ask for your forgiveness here's a cliffhanger." But I mean, it's not the _worst _cliffhanger I've done. Just gettin' back in the game... anyway, thanks for sticking with me still despite that monster of a wait. At the latest I'll upload within a week.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Wow, thanks for the warm welcome back! I really appreciate all your kind words, and without further ado, chapter ten!**

* * *

_**PREVIOUSLY**_

_Dean!" He screamed, his breath short and fast. "DEAN!" He yanked his arm away from the lady and felt a prick in his other arm._

_Everything turned black and Sam Winchester was alone._

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

After Sam had been lifted into a second ambulance, John was asked to either ride along or follow.

Caleb was talking to the police still. John didn't give it a second thought.

A man took his hand and helped him up. "Alright, let's move!" He shouted. The doors slammed shut and the ambulance was off.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Bobby must've dozed off, which was a terrible thing to do. When he woke up, everything was a mess.

Sam was shivering in his sleep, lips tinged blue, but warming up with the heat of the room.

Dean's breathing was off, and when Bobby tried to wake him up, he didn't respond.

The police scanner was jabbering about some mysterious death or something, but all Bobby saw was Sam's slowing pulse and Dean's ragged breathing and he did what any surrogate father would do.

He panicked.

Bobby's fingers ghosted over 911, but the boys had had multiple run ins with the police of late, Dean said so.

He punched in different numbers and waited impatiently for the old friend to pick up.

"Bobby? That you?"

"Ellen, hey! Thank _god_! I-I-I—"

"Spit it out Singer, I'm not getting any younger."

"I need your help."

"You get a case? I'm a little tied up but—"

"Dean and Sam. I- they- there's."

Ellen sounded shaky herself when she responded, "Are they okay."

"They will be. I-I don't know who to call. You near a computer?"

Ellen paused on her end and he heard the blaring music that always accompanied the Roadhouse turned down a little. Either the place was next to empty or she'd moved to a quieter, more private location.

"Whatcha need?"

"A clinic or something. Bad run-in with a ghost." He explained briefly, already calming down.

Ellen managed to find a fairly close emergency clinic to Broken Ridge, which opened bright and early the following morning. "You take care of those boys, Bobby." She added.

"I owe you, Ellen. Sorry, don't really know why I called..."

"Don't worry 'bout it Singer, just get them boys to the clinic bright and early, okay?"

Bobby closed the phone and returned to the boys, unsure of what to do. As he assessed both their temperatures, which were drastically low, an even colder feeling swept across him. Bobby looked around the room.

"Dear God..." Bobby muttered, backing up and reaching his hands behind himself, groping blindly across the table for his gun. Cool metal hit his hand. He pulled it around and faced the three spirits.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Dean was already gone by the time they made it to the hospital with Sam.

They shouted medical jargon across the body of his son, covered him with a blanket, hooked him into an IV.

"Sir!" John blinked. "Did he have the fever or is this news to you?" A woman was asking him.

"He-he was supposed to be getting better." John whispered, Sam's hand feeling awfully cold in his.

"Okay, possible hypothermia, high-grade fever, looks like jaw fracture..." John rubbed his thumb over the back of Sam's hand and wondered when everything went so wrong...

_"But if I goes to kindergarten, who'll watch Sammy?" Dean asked logically._

_"Don't worry, honey, I'm home. I'll watch Sam all the time." Mary cooed, trying to get Dean to lay back down in his bed._

_"But what if he's scared I'm not gonna come back?"_

_"He trusts you, Dean-o." John spoke warmly, entering the room. "You will come back, won't you?"_

_Dean looked shocked. "Of scourse I will! Sammy needs me!"_

_Mary chuckled. "You're a great big brother, Dean. Good night, sleep tight." She kissed his forehead gently. "The angels are watching over you."_

_She brushed past John and smiled, her blonde hair flipped casually over her shoulder._

_"Mrs. Winchester," He said with a peck on the cheek._

_"Mr. Winchester," She greeted in return._

_"Winchester."_

_"Win_chester!"

John clutched the wrist on his shoulder with hunter's reflexes before he'd even opened his eyes. But when he did, he stared back at an exasperated Caleb and a shocked doctor.

"John, it's okay." Caleb said, with more compassion than John had heard in a long time. "Your boys are okay."

"Well— We hope they will be." The doctor said, catching a glare from Caleb. "Mr. Winchester, I'm Dr. Bennett. I was Sam's doctor while he was treated."

John's breath caught in his throat. "W-_was_..." He croaked. The woman had just used Sam in the past tense. She was Sam's doctor. Dear God.

"...inchester! John!" He snapped his head back up.

"She just means Sam has been transferred to another doctor." Caleb spoke gently, sending another look at the woman.

"O-oh... How-How are they? Dean?"

"He's unconscious right now. He has suffered a severe concussion, which only worsened when he collapsed in the street."

John startled as Caleb gently put his hand on John's shoulder.

"He has some stitched lacerations on his chest, too, three broken ribs, and some less severe abrasions and cuts from general... abuse. What we're mainly worried about is the length of time it will take him to wake up. It'll increase the likeliness of brain damage."

"Sammy?" John whispered.

"His ankle is fractured, rather severely. He seems to have walked on it after injury, which damaged it more. His jaw seems to have been hit with some powerful brass knuckles, we're guessing, but that will heal. We're most worried about the fever and possible hypothermia from exposure to the weather with little clothing in addition to a severe concussion. That and..."

John tensed. "Go on." He croaked.

"We sent Sam for an MRI, to see if the concussion might have been the cause of the deafness. We'll let you know when we know whether it is temporary or permanent, sir, but we really need to talk to either Sam or Dean when one wakes up to get the full story."

"I don't know what happened." John whispered. "I shouldn't have left them alone."

"You didn't know." Caleb assured.

John ignored his friend. "Can I see them?"

"Dean is in room 364, third floor."

John was out of his seat in a second, Caleb close on his heels as he made his way to the elevator.

The clack of Dr. Bennett's heels followed John all the way to the elevator, but it wasn't until he pushed the up button that he turned to look back at her.

"I must warn you," Dr. Bennett said, slightly out of breath. "Dean's unconscious for now—" The elevator dinged and the blonde followed the two men onto the platform.

"Dean is not conscious. For his own safety he has been intubated and we don't honestly know when he will be awake. That's up to him, Mr. Winchester. But the sooner the better. Coma and concussion is a terrible combination, I'm afraid."

"Dean's a fighter." _Quite literally_, he thought. "So is Sam. He'll be fine." John mumbled. "He'll be fine."

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

"All... Three... Of you... The boys burned you... And how the hell did you get in?" Bobby shot a round of rock salt at the ghosts, his head flicking towards Dean as the boy flinched in his sleep.

Once the spirits had disappeared momentarily, Bobby checked the windows and doors.

"DAMN IT, BOYS!" Bobby shouted in frustration. The boys must have been damn tired to forget the entire bathroom.

He set the shotgun next to Dean's sleeping form and left the door open a crack while he sifted through his trunk for salt.

"The _hell_ are those bastards still doing here?" Bobby muttered, rifling through his trunk grumpily.

Dean and Sam were both still out cold, something that bothered Bobby enough as it was. Those two slept with one eye open. While Sam had a damn good excuse for sleeping through the noise, Dean must be down right exhausted to sleep through a friggin shotgun.

Bobby rested his hand on Dean's forehead to check for a fever, finding nothing. He couldn't take his mind off the question at hand.

If the Recurrants were still around, it explained why Sam had gone from bad to worse, same with Dean.

Bobby say next to Dean on the bed. "You may not have a hospital, boy, butcha got me."

Dean's lips twitched in a smile.

* * *

**So looks like the ghosts aren't gone after all. Wonder what the boys missed... Not the longest chapter, but what can I say. See you guys next week!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Really long time, no see, guys. And I'm really sorry about that. Real life kinda caught up with me. Thanks to the anonymous guest reviewer about a day or two ago who finally pushed me into updating! So here's two whole chapters (I hope everyone remembers what was happening...)**

* * *

_"Dean is not conscious, and we do not honestly know when he will be awake. That is up to him, Mr. Winchester."_

_"Dean's a fighter." Quite literally, he thought. "So is Sam. He'll be fine." John mumbled. "He'll be fine."_

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

John Winchester spent a majority of the next couple days alternating between sitting at Sam's bedside and Dean's. The doctor and nurses wouldn't hear of disrupting either patient just to have the two housed in the same room.

John had told them how the boys would react if they woke up without the other by their side. No one would listen. Instead they just sent him waves of sympathy.

"Did you hear about that man over there?" They would say. "Winchester. Did you hear about his children?"

The nurses whispered and gossiped. "The madmen got to his children." They would say. And John couldn't take much more of the whispering.

So Caleb was a trooper, taking up position by whichever boy wasn't currently being visited by the elder hunter.

The scans had shown that there was about a fifty fifty chance Sam wouldn't have permanent hearing loss. It depended on how fast he kicked this fever's ass, and how he felt when he woke up.

Not to say John hadn't seen him wake up a few times. He was disoriented, always looking fear stricken, only aware enough to gaze up at John for a few seconds before tiredly letting his eyes slip shut again.

Dean wasn't doing so good himself. Still unconscious, the doctor was beginning to murmur about the heightened risks the longer the concussed boy wasn't woken up.

But currently, John sat next to Sam. His son was a collage of bandages, from the wrappings around his neck to the casted leg. John rubbed his thumb across Sam's palm as he watched him.

"You know..." John said tiredly. "When Mary was pregnant with you... Dean was really excited. Said he didn't care whether you were a boy or a girl, on one condition..." John chuckled at the memory, the steady beep of the heart monitor filling the silence.

"He said... he just wanted to make sure we got him a _little_ brother or sister. He didn't want no big bro tellin' him what to do." John brushed Sam's hair from his eyes. "That was s'posed to be _his_ job."

Sam's eyes cracked slightly and he looked up at John.

"Hey, buddy, you with me this time?" Sam smacked his dry lips in response and stared at John with a worried expression. One bandaged hand reached up shakily to touch his ear. John was about to reassure Sam as best he could when he heard a commotion down the hall. "Caleb!" He called, watching two nurses run towards the direction of Dean's room.

John burst out of the chair and ran into the hall. He squeezed past a man with a gurney and almost toppled one nurse as he turned the corner.

"DEAN!" He shouted, spotting Caleb in the hallway. He skidded up and burst through the door.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Dean woke groggily to a dark, empty room, save a shadowy form on the opposite bed. He sat up and ran his hand through his hair with a yawn. He felt... Okay... Better than yesterday, at least. Sitting up made his ribs scream in protest, but he made his way over to Sam anyway.

His brother was curled on his side, facing Dean's bed, his brow crinkled in discontent even in sleep. Dean sighed, but figured he should wake him up and give him some meds, maybe take some himself, too.

He shook Sam's shoulder gently, not expecting his brother's reaction; Sam yelped, sat up and punched Dean in the shoulder before falling off the bed and practically into his brother's lap.

Dean groaned and gripped his shoulder with gritted teeth, the knife wound still fresh, though everything seemed to be healing.

Sam signed a sloppy sorry, bent double in pain from his collision with the dirty motel room floor.

"S'okay." Dean muttered, even though Sam couldn't see him.

He sat up and rolled his shoulder a few times with a slight wince before helping Sam into a sitting position as well.

He placed his hand on Sam's forehead. **Bed.** He signed. **You're burning up.**

Sam grumbled and took Dean's hand to half stand and roll back onto the bed, accepting the pills and glass of water.

**Where's Bobby?** He signed.

Dean froze mid action of tucking Sam in. "That's a good question." He said. "I'll figure it out."

Sam nodded and turned back onto his good side, pillow wrenched under his head and sheets pulled up to his shoulders. Within minutes his breath had evened out.

Dean clicked his tongue and tried to remind himself that Sam was twenty-four, not four, even if he looked it sometimes.

He swallowed a couple pills himself before dialing Bobby's number. There was no answer. So he tried not to worry, and instead focused on trying to figure out what to do about Sam's ears.

He could take Sam to a specialist, but he didn't know how much that would cost. He was willing to pay anything, though.

At that moment, the doorknob shook as someone tried to get in. He heard the jingling of keys, but without a peephole, Dean had no way of knowing who it was until he opened the door.

The man stood in a nice dress suit, slicked back hair, and a coat. Dean looked at him incredulously. "Bobby?"

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

John skidded to a halt in panic, only to see a young nurse completing a check up, the room still and calm, though he heard commotion a few doors down.

Dean lay just as still as ever. "He's doing okay, Mr. Winchester. His vitals are fine. He just needs to wake up!" She added a little too loudly and a little too cheerfully, patting Dean's limp shoulder as she brushed past the flustered father.

"What was that, John?"

"I thought... Dean was... in trouble..." John panted.

"You were with Sam?"

"Yes... he... Sam!... He must be worried! He was awake!"

"I've got it, John." Caleb said, knowing that John would want to stay with Dean after the scare.

He returned to Sam's room to see a nurse trying to calm Sam down, the boy in tears.

"Sam?" He said. He didn't think he'd ever seen the boy cry before.

The nurse pointed Sam towards Caleb. She gave him a quick hug, checked his wires, and handed Caleb a whiteboard as she left.

"Until he learns more, this should help," She told him, pressing a marker into his free hand.

Caleb nodded and sat down next to Sam. **You know Dean's fine** Caleb wrote. **He'll be fine**

Sam held out his hand for the board. He took it and used his sheets to clean it off.

**Then why was Dad running?**

**Your dad was scared Dean wasn't fine But he was**

He flipped the board around and Sam nodded.

**I can't hear you** He wrote. **The nurse says I won't**

**Not now** Caleb scribbled back. They really needed two white boards. The back and forth was time consuming.

**Ever?** Sam wrote.

**We don't know for sure The doctors haven't done all the tests they can There's a chance it will heal and a chance it won't**

Sam read the board and nodded, wiping under his eyes. **Do I look like I was crying?** He asked.

Caleb wanted to say that it was okay to cry. Even men cried. And with what Sam went through it was a miracle he hadn't done so yet. He carried a weight on his shoulders like no child should, especially now looking so broken in his hospital bed.

Instead, he just shook his head.

**************

Sam was sick of the emptiness. He felt pain all over but he was too tired to use the white board and let someone know and too embarrassed to use his voice.

They said he had "perforated ear drums" and "conductive hearing loss." It was most likely temporary, but how long temporary was, no one knew. He had surgery in two days that would hopefully speed things up.

He curled up on his side and stared out the narrow window. It was lonely in here without Dean.

No one would tell him how Dean was doing, just "better." If Dean was doing better, why wasn't Sam allowed to go see him?

"Because Dean's getting better but Sam's getting worse." The nurses said.

Sam didn't necessarily disagree, he just didn't really care anymore. He didn't eat much. Dean wasn't eating, why should he? The last thing Sam had ever heard was Dean screaming. It still rang through his ears and haunted him in his sleep.

John usually came in and tried to calm him down. He was allowed to stay overnight because Dean wasn't awake. If Dean wasn't sleeping so much, Sam was pretty sure Dad wouldn't be allowed to stay the night.

Sam was indifferent to everything. He hadn't touched the whiteboard since it was given to Caleb that one day, and later it still sat with whatever note was left to him last, depending on the time of day.

That night when he woke up, most likely screaming, John quickly erased **Please eat some dinner Sam** to scrawl a plead for Sam to tell him what the nightmares were about.

Sam couldn't look at his dad's eyes. He turned and stared out the window again with dull, blank eyes. He wasn't even tired anymore. Just broken.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

"_Bo_bby?"

"You gonna let me in or gawk, boy?"

Dean stuttered and moved to let the older hunter through.

"Where were you?" Dean asked.

"Talking to the police about that night. You guys look better, as expected. The Recurrants might not be dead, but they're weakened. You'll be feeling a little better. How's Sam?"

"Still deaf. Woke up for a bit. Convinced him to take some drugs and go back to sleep but... Bobby, what happened last night?"

"You two weren't getting any better. Worse, in fact. After the ghost came in, I realized we had no time to lose."

"And you dressed like a cheap lawyer because..."

"They won't let just _anyone_ in there. Besides, you should have seen yourselves last night. It was terrible. Thank god burning the bones started to take effect or I would've raced you two to the hospital." He eyed Dean and dared him to protest. "Delinquents or not. How are you, Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "Not gettin' worse. You don't think Sam's deafness will heal?"

It was Bobby's turn to shrug. "I mean, it's not like your wounds are healing per say. Just like you said- they're just... not getting worse."

Dean nodded gravely, glancing at his sleeping brother, body twisted between the sheets. "_Damn_, Bobby, I want him to be okay."

He looked back at his old friend. "He's taking it better than last time."

Bobby raised his eyebrows.

"It's not easy to suddenly lose one of your senses." Dean said. "I just wanted to take his spot... still do."

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Sam was wheeled out for surgery two days later in mid afternoon.

"How long did you say it would take?"

"About one and a half or two hours, since we don't need to make an incision." Said Dr. Homes, Sam's new doctor. "We'll put Sam under general anesthesia. He won't feel a thing."

John nodded, not letting go of his son's hand until he was pulled through the double doors, leaving John tired, scared, and unshaved in the waiting room.

**************

"He won't speak. Won't write on the board. Barely sleeps. He won't eat..." The list went on and on as John expressed his concerns to the doctor. "Every day, Sam gets worse."

Dr. Homes nodded. "We can put him on some simple anti-depressants, if everyone is comfortable with that. Something that won't mess with his other medications. It doesn't help him heal to not get proper nourishment."

John nodded his thanks and downed his last sips of hospital coffee. It had been a day since the surgery, and Sam had come out fine, with the promise of at least some hearing returned, though no doctor, surgeon, or specialist would tell him whether that recovery would happen in weeks, months, or years.

John nudged Sam, who must be faking sleep because his breathing was deliberately even. Sam turned and glowered at him with anger in his eyes.

John held up the whiteboard: **We're going to put you on antidepressants Sam**

Sam shook his head.

**You're depressed I know it, I can tell** **kiddo**

Sam shook his head.

**Why? I told you Dean'll be okay** A thought struck John that filled him with such fear he felt he might throw up. He shakily erased the board with his sleeve. **Sam, you were found in your underwear. Do you remember anything**  
He couldn't even finish the sentence but he held it up and watched Sam's eyes widen in horror.

He held his hand out in annoyance for the board and marker, which John handed over willingly. Sam was making contact and though John was worried of his son's response, seeing him make conversation was a step up.

**I don't remember why I was in my underwear.** He wrote in neat handwriting. **But don't you think they'd checked when a twelve-year-old is brought in in his boxers whether he'd been friggin raped?** Sam sloppily wiped a tear out of the way. **I just want Dean to be okay. He needs to be okay.**

With that, he turned on his side and sighed in utter annoyance at his father.

They started him on antidepressants that night.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

It was eerily quiet when Sam Winchester woke up, which confused him, because when is a motel ever completely quiet?

It took him a moment to remember. Then it all crashed down. He gave a ragged sigh and ran a hand through his hair, flipping back the covers.

He was halfway to the bathroom when he started, realizing Bobby was sitting at the table with a laptop.

"Hi." He said.

"Hi." Bobby replied.

"Dean?" Sam tended to keep his sentences as short as possible, though he was sure he sounded more normal than he would have ten years ago.

"He went out to get breakfast." Bobby told him slowly.

Sam nodded.

"Hey..." Bobby cleared his throat. "How are you?"

"Good."

"No really, Sam. Emotionally."

"Good."

"I'm not going to get a long answer out of you am I?"

Sam smiled. "No."

"Okay."

Sam nodded and grabbed his towel, closing the bathroom door behind him.

Sam stripped, taking a moment to wince at the bruises and scrapes that riddled his body. His ears were still black and blue, and he thanked God his hair covered them fairly well.

He started the shower and stepped in, even though the water was scalding and kind of burned his back.

He closed his eyes, focusing on smell alone, a mixture of peach and lavender soap and Dean's aftershave, because he always left the damn cap off and that stuff smelled.

By the time Sam dried off and got dressed, Dean had gotten back, and Sam opened the bathroom door to see his brother stuffing his mouth with some sort of breakfast sandwich while Bobby looked on in disgust.

"Sam!" Dean said with a full mouth. "Hey!" He finished his bite and set the sandwich down, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"How are you?"

"Good." Sam said.

"Yeah, Bobby said that's all you'd say. How are you really?"

Sam stuttered the beginning to a sentence before looking down at his hands.

"Go ahead." Dean nodded.

Sam signed, the moves surprisingly fluid after years of dormancy.

**My head hurts really bad, near my ears. My ankle mostly. I can't really walk. Also my nose.**

**And this is saying something, Sammy. You don't usually tell me these things so easily.**

Sam shrugged.

**We'll take you to get fixed up.**

He smiled. **You think Bobby is wondering what we're saying?**

Then it what Dean's turn to smile. **Probably. Wondering if we even remember if he's here.**

"You know I'm sitting right here." Bobby growled. Dean laughed wholeheartedly. He nodded at Sam, who ended up laughing too, quieter, but still there. Bobby looked confused.

"Get off that foot." Dean said aloud. Sam rolled his eyes but did as he was told while Dean sat and spoke to Bobby.

"What're you boys up to?" Bobby asked suspiciously, pushing his eggs around his plate.

"I'm gonna take Sam to the clinic this morning. Get him checked out."

"You mean I'm taking you _two_ to the clinic."

"No, Bobby, I can drive."

"No chances. We'll leave in ten. Ellen called and gave me the address." Sam grunted and they both looked over at him, attempting to tie his boots.

Dean let the argument go and sat opposite Sam.

"What's wrong?" He nodded towards Sam's foot.

**Can't get my shoe on. Foot's swollen.**

"It doesn't matter. Go barefoot." Dean suggested. Sam sighed. He did a lot of that lately, the sighing. He couldn't help it.

Sam realized if this couldn't get fixed, he would be nothing but a disadvantage to Dean. Again. How could he watch Dean's back if he couldn't even hear the monster approaching? How was he supposed to rescue Dean from the hellhounds?

* * *

**Second chapter up in minutes! Thanks for anyone who stuck with this after that break. I really appreciate it. Thank you guys so much!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Onwards!**

* * *

It was another day of Sam staring at the off-white wall and Caleb sitting quietly with a magazine across the room, as neither John nor Caleb wanted to leave the boy alone for too long.

A nurse rushed in, raising Caleb's head in interest. Sam didn't turn around, though he could make out a new shadow in the light of the wall he faced.

"Dean Winchester." She panted. "He's awake."

"I'm telling you, Dean's got some guardian angels." Dean attempted to send the doctor a charming smile, but just managed to pull his lips up in a tired grimace.

"You here that, Dean-o? You're gonna be fine!" John gently nudged Dean's arm, beaming.

"Where's Sam."

"Dean, that's the sixth time you've asked me. You need to focus on yourself. We don't need you all stressed."

"So he's okay?"

"He's awake."

"So he's _okay_?"

"He's... He's fine."

"God, he's hurt isn't he. Dad, he wasn't doing good. I fell, I remember. Left him there alone, oh god. It's all my fault, it's—"

"Dean! It's _not_ your fault!" John spoke strongly. "You did amazing. You should see those guys!" Dean smiled and chuckled.

"No... you should really see them. We need someone to ID the bodies." John added with a serious face.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "I thought Sam was awake, he couldn't..."

John flinched. "He refused, I couldn't push him."

Dean nodded gravely. "I want to see him."

"Dean, you can't."

"You know as well as I do, there's _no_ getting me to comply to anything you say unless you at least let me see him."

The nurse, who had politely watched on so far, interrupted.

"It's not good for your health to leave the bed." She squeaked nervously, barely having had an actual conversation with the teen yet.

"Well, if he's fine, bring him here! I don't care, as long as I see him."

An awkward silence filled the room, leaving Dean to dart his eyes between the nurse and his Dad's knowing glances.

"What?" He asked. "_What_?"

"It's Sam..." John spoke. He watched Dean tense instantly. "He refuses to leave his room—leave his bed. He's been depressed, Dean."

Dean looked down at the sheets. "What?"

"He can't hear. It's most likely temporary hearing loss, but there's no telling how long temporary is. Weeks, months, years... no one knows. Its all relative to each patient. And Sam hasn't taken it well."

Dean looked about ready to cry, picking at the tape holding his IV in place. The nurse swatted his hand.

"He won't eat, won't even have a conversation through the whiteboard we got. He said he... he said if you couldn't eat, neither could he." John cringed. Saying his son's condition out loud made it that much more real.

"Let me talk to him." Dean said.

"Dean you can't get out of—"

"Let me _talk_ to him, Dad." Dean adamantly glared at his father. "Does he even know I'm awake?"

"Dean it's been only two days since you first woke..."

"You didn't _tell_ him?"

"Dean—"

"Me being unconscious is the source of all his depression and you don't even tell him I'm a_wake_?" Dean shook his head in disbelief.

"Dean, you were _barely_ awake! You dozed off most of the time! _Still_ do! You couldn't get up and he re_fused_ to. All it would do is cause pressure between both of your orders to get healthy."

"I can fix this, Dad." Dean didn't break eye contact with his father. "Just let me _try_."

It took Dean a while to get in the wheelchair at all, which he had originally refused. That is, until he tried to stand up. Multiple lacerations on his chest, a deep knife wound in the shoulder, and a few broken ribs made it impossible for even Dean Winchester to stand up without showing a sign of pain.

"I'm alright." He grumbled as nurses' hands were all around him, fixing his IV and his bandages and—may God have mercy—his _hospital gown._

Sam, having been more healthy and definitely more conscious than Dean, was on a different floor. The elevator ride was a pain, Dean tapping his foot impatiently until it dinged and they were on the move again.

John stood right beside him the whole time, and from what Dean heard, Caleb had been a big help too.

"You sure you feel alright?" John asked for the 600th time as they rounded the last corner.

"I'm fine." Dean replied. "But let me do this alone." John hesitated before nodding.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

The clinic was a short ride, especially for Sam, who fell asleep in the back of the car on the way over.

"Wake up, we're here." Dean shook Sam's knee. Sam even accepted Dean's help to step out.

Bobby went ahead and was already filling out information when Sam and Dean hobbled in.

"It even _smells_ like clinic." Dean muttered in disgust. Sam didn't hear him, but the old woman to his right certainly did.

The brothers sat down, Dean thumbing through his wallet to decide which insurance card to use. Sam was watching the TV and working on his lip reading.

Bobby came over and sat with a clipboard and a small pile of papers. Sam winced and adjusted his seat as the newscaster panned to a house fire somewhere in a nearby county. Two deaths, he deciphered.

A sudden sense of protectiveness came over him and he nudged Dean. His brother was also watching the screen, brows furrowed and eyes living what Sam was only imagining.

"House fire, eh?" Bobby piped up. He gave both boys a worried glance before handing the paperwork to Dean.

"Déjà vu." Dean muttered, though whether he meant the fire or the medical forms, Bobby didn't care to ask.

It wasn't too long before they were called in, thankfully. The rooms were pasty white, with posters plastered on the walls advocating safe sex and clean teeth.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Ruiz." The man said. "Who are we looking at today?"

As Dean opened his mouth to say "Sam," Bobby beat him to it. "Both of them, Doctor."

Ruiz nodded and turned to Sam. "What seems to be the problem?"

Sam glanced at Dean, asking him with his eyes to say something, so Dean did. "My brother, here, he was attacked a long time ago and lost his hearing. It was temporary, but now he's... gotten hurt again and he can't hear anymore."

Sam smiled at the doctor politely.

"You should have taken him to the hospital." Dr. Ruiz admonished. "But let's see what we can do. If you'll just tell him he needs to hop up onto this table, please."

Dean relayed the instructions, but Sam was already on his feet. "He can read lips well," Dean added in explanation.

The doctor took a long time, peering in Sam's ears, asking questions, and at one point leaving to search out proper headphones to do a quick hearing test.

"It seems like this is very similar to what you described," the doctor said to Dean, who was too interested in what the man had to say to translate. Sam watched on nervously, jittering his leg up and down.

"Only very similar?" Dean repeated. Up until now, things had been just about exactly the same.

"Well, it seems to be slightly less damaging. Yes, his hearing is currently gone, but where last time you said there was a fifty fifty chance of regaining hearing, I can tell you- and remember, I'm no expert here- but I'm around eighty percent sure he'll get his hearing back."

"That's it?" Dean asked, cracking a smile. "Why the hell aren't you at a hospital instead of this dump, you genius bastard!"

He thumped the surprised man on the shoulder and turned to sign it all to Sam, who was already relaxed after seeing Dean actually smile.

"Let's go!" Dean grinned, grabbing Sam's arm.

"No!" Sam protested. It must've come out louder than he thought because the doctor's turned back jumped and he stole a glance at the brothers.

**You need to get checked out, too.** Sam signed. **And I'm not moving until you do.**

Dean grumbled but did as he was told, trading stool for plastic-coated table while Sam looked on.

It was with exhaustion and complete lack of adrenaline that the three of them returned to the motel that afternoon. Sam, subconscious about the brace on his broken nose, headed straight for the nearest bed, curled on his side away from conversation. Dean sat down at the table to talk to Bobby.

"How's he doing?" Bobby asked as he cracked open a can of Spaghettio's for lunch.

"Alright. The brace won't kill 'im. And he's much happier now that he knows his hearing will be back."

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "He's sure got a funny way of showing it."

Dean waived a hand in dismissal. "Nah, he's just tired. But, look, why is his hearing returning more definitely than last time? I mean, I'm not complaining, but..."

The Spaghettio's sloshed into the bowl rather loudly in the silence that followed. Bobby set the spoon down and looked at Dean.

"Well," he began. "I reckon it's because the ghosts aren't at full power. Whatever's keepin' them here— which I'm looking into," he added with a pointed finger before Dean could interrupt. "Whatever's keeping them here, you burned their physical bodies. That's gotta do them a good one. They're probably _no_where near as powerful as they were."

Dean nodded, mind elsewhere.

"And how about you, Dean? You were getting worse for a bit there too. You could've died."

Dean smiled bitterly. "Yeah, well if not now than in a few months time, right?"

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

Sam was curled up facing the outer wall when they wheeled Dean in. It gave Dean a moment to prepare himself. Caleb, who was sitting politely in a chair by Sam's bed, stood up and made room.

Dean brushed off the nurses who tried to help when he moved to the rickety chair, but he gave them a look that begged for privacy and they agreed.

Soon it was just Dean and his brother, with John waiting impatiently outside the door.

Dean rested a hand on Sam's shoulder, but Sam swatted it off, thinking it was his dad or a nurse again. Dean, only slightly phased by it, tried again.

This time Sam slapped his hand off with a sniffle. Dean's hardened look softened. "_Sammy_..." He whispered.

Sam swatted his hand away two more times before Dean lost his patience, grabbed Sam's shoulder, and pulled him around.

Dean froze and sucked in a breath. Nothing could have prepared him for how much of a physical toll Sam's body had taken.

His dad was right, Sam wouldn't eat, a fact which was proven in his sunken eyes and frailty, not to mention his sickly pale yellow skin tone.

He wore a thin brace on his misshapen nose. His face was a rainbow of bruises and cuts, his jaw a swollen mass that made Dean cringe.

"Sam..." He repeated, and even though Sam couldn't hear, he could pick that word up anywhere. Dean would never forget the way Sam looked at Dean when he saw him that first time.

In two seconds, his fingers went from a threatening fist to a shaky, open-handed disbelief.

His eyes widened, as if he couldn't believe Dean was actually _here_, awake and next to him. Within seconds he'd leaned forward and enveloped Dean into a tight hug, reminding Dean way too much of the same boy clinging to him to keep from falling into the cold night snow.

"Sam, I'm okay, really, look! It's you who needs help now, buddy." Dean said, pulling back. Sam's open hand raised to meet Dean's face, his fingers laying gently on his older brother's neck, where he could feel the vibration. Dean piled his hands on top to hold the shaking one in place and continued.

"Look, I know you're glad to see me okay, but I wanted to be happy to see you be okay, too, alright? So now that I'm awake, will you start eating?" Dean waited for an answer but all he received was a crestfallen frown and a shake of the head in misunderstanding. Sam pointed to the whiteboard behind Dean.

"Oh... right," Dean found the marker. He erased the last words (**Dean will be ****fine**) with the side of his hand.

"No damn way I'm rewriting everything I just said." Sam chuckled, picking up Dean's unnecessary sass from his expression alone.

**Get better,** Dean wrote simply. **And eat.**

Sam grabbed Dean's hand and slipped the marker out. **O.K.** he added.

Dean ruffled his hair. "Thanks, buddy."

Sam sucked in a breath and gave a feeble smile.

"Dean."

Dean followed Sam's gaze to John in the doorway. "Dad."

"The nurses say it's time to go," John said. He stepped cautiously into the room. Sam looked from one Winchester to the other nervously.

"Already?" A woman came in, pushing a wheelchair. "Oh, _hell_ no!" Dean protested with a smirk.

Sam's bandaged hand gripped Dean's wrist as tightly as possible. Dean looked back at Sam's big eyes.

"No..." Sam whispered, and Dean realized it was the first thing he'd heard Sam say since that night.

The nurse reached him with the wheelchair. "Come on, sweetie."

Dean rubbed Sam's shoulder and pushed himself out of the chair.

"No!" Sam said, his grip tightening.

"Sam, it's okay."

"No!"

John's strong arm was suddenly on Dean, helping him into the wheelchair. Caleb was also instantly there, scrawling a note onto the whiteboard. Whatever it was he showed Sam, it didn't help. Sam's heart rate monitor was beeping faster to match Dean's own hectic pulse.

Sam was screaming now, hyperventilating in a way Dean hadn't seen since that first time John came home with more blood on him than in. The worst part was, he couldn't hear himself scream. When he didn't get the response he wanted, he upped the volume.

Sam's vision locked on Dean. "This isn't healthy, get him out of here!" Dean heard, and all of the sudden he was in motion, being pulled farther and farther away from his brother.

"Sam!" Dean shouted back, knowing even if the kid couldn't hear him, he'd recognize that word in a heartbeat.

Dean locked his arms on the door frame, stalling the chair. "Let me calm him down!" Dean protested.

The nurses stopped as a young man strode across the room. "We can't get him to sit still long enough to administer the sedative. He ripped the IV out. Full blown panic attack. Call Stacy."

"Woah, woah, _woah_!" Dean gripped the man's arm. "You don't need Sta. You need _Dean_."

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

Sam's eyes snapped open. He swept wet bangs out of his eyes and checked the bedside table clock. Midnight. Nightmare. But he was awake now.

Sam turned and yelped, locking eyes with his brother, blinking at him from only a foot away.

Dean pressed Sam's palm to his hand as he spelled out** Nightmare?**

Sam's hand grabbed Dean's and spelled **Yes.** He didn't know what else to say. And it was late at night. Too dark to communicate without lights.

Dean ruffled his hair as if to say, _I'm right here._ _Annoyingly close to you_. But Sam wasn't annoyed. His foggy mind pieces together that Bobby occupied the other bed, but he wasn't complaining. Tonight, it felt safe.

Dean woke to the sound of Bobby crashing into the desk, Sam's laptop falling to the ground.

He sat up too fast and almost fell off the bed, having been pushed to the edge by Sam's invasive, lanky arms.

"Bobby!" He shouted, standing up. The hunter was currently attempting to stand back up too.

"Dean!" He panted. "It's the three ghosts. I figured them out." He shot the shotgun at something to the left of Dean and he turned in time to see the ghost disappearing. "I figured them out." Bobby repeated. "And they're mad."

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

It took a raised voice, empty threats, and a whole lot of arguing from both John and Dean to convince the nurse Dean was okay enough to go back in.

Dean could still hear Sam's sucking breaths and the woman couldn't push him into that room fast enough.

"Dean! Dean! Dean!"

He pushed himself out of the wheelchair, feeling it knock his heels and almost push him over as he did so.

"Sammy!" He pushed past the nurses and grabbed Sam's hand, making sure his brother made eye contact. He was going to have to find a way to communicate without words. Sam was still panicking, though he had grown quiet.

Dean squeezed Sam's hand and motioned the nurse with the wheelchair out of the room.

"Dean," Sam said again, but this time it wasn't panicked, but sad as he realized again that he couldn't hear himself say it.

"Dean." He spoke firmly, frowning.

"Dean." He raised his voice just a little. "Dean. Dean. Dean." He looked bewildered as he looked at his brother. "Not a dream..." He spoke brokenly, watery eyes fixed on the equally moist green orbs of his brother.

They agreed to let Dean stay the night, mostly because none of the day nurses were mean or suicidal enough to separate the brothers. When John went in to say goodnight, Sam had fallen asleep with his hand flat on Dean's neck.

Dean himself was barely keeping his eyes open, reluctantly exhausted and pinned to the bed by his brother. Not that he would have left, anyway.

"Hi," Dean whispered as his dad walked over. He may or may not have realized Sam wouldn't be woken by his voice at any volume but this felt more normal and more comfortable.

"You know, I think this is the best he's slept in ages." John said, only slightly louder than his son. "You can sleep too. You know, if you want." He added awkwardly.

"Yeah, cool. Except, you know, I kinda slept for like two weeks or something. Plus they'll just wake me back up in like an hour or so."

John rocked on his heels and righted a crooked painting of a circus, courtesy of the children's unit interior decorators.

"You know, we're going to have to talk about what happened."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, I know."

"But not with Sammy here."

"Yeah, I know." Dean looked down at his brother, taking in everything from the bandages wrist draped on his own collarbone to the dark circles under Sam's eyes. "Might be a while. He's kind of... attached."

John chuckled. "Understandably so." John looked at his feet. "I, uh, I'm sorry, Dean. For this. For everything."

Dean cocked a brow. "You? Sorry? It wasn't your fault, Dad."

"I left you alone, Sam was sick—"

"Re_covering_."

John opened his mouth when Caleb cleared his throat, entering the room looking clean shaven and fresh.

"Well, Caleb, you actually don't smell like a locker room today." Dean said with a sarcastic smile.

"Yeah, can't say the same 'bout your dad." He nudged Winchester, but it was obviously more than a joke. "You look tired, John. Head back to the motel. Clean up, get some rest. I got it here."

John left without a word five minutes later, and Dean was left wondering if the sentimental conversation they'd had had even existed in the first place.

**BROKEN RIDGE, 2007**

"What do you mean you figured them out?" Dean asked, anticipation evident in his wide eyes. He was gripping Bobby's shoulder tightly, sparing glances at Sam.

"It's all in the masks. The masks are so much a part of them, a part of what got them killed, it's basically an extra body part."

"An extra body part we didn't salt and burn."

Bobby nodded stoically. And all at once, both men recognized the calm before the storm.

"The salt line's broken." Dean said.

"The ghosts stopped fighting." Bobby said.

"Down!" Dean shouted. Bobby ducked just in time to miss a flying chair to the head.

"Shotgun!" Dean yelled. Bobby wheeled around and aimed. Within seconds the ghost had dissipated.

Dean stopped and helped Bobby to his feet quickly. "Grab Sam, I know where to find them." Bobby panted.

By the time Dean was ushering a bewildered Sam to the car, Bobby had started it up. They sped out and onto the two lane road, Dean twisting around in the passenger seat to quickly explain to Sam what was happening.

**I slept through all of that?**

Dean nodded.

**So why are we out at 4:30?**

**Bobby says he know where the masks are,** he signed—in speeding cars on bumpy roads it was difficult to lip read.

**Where?**

**The Broken Ridge Evidence Vault,** Dean spelled out letter by letter. **Got your lock pick?**

**BROKEN RIDGE, 1995**

A week later, both boys were dismissed, with plenty of medication, and in regretfully accepted wheelchairs.

John, who pushed Dean's wheelchair, looked just as annoyed as the grumbling teen in the seat. "Come on Dad, run down the hallway!" Dean said with mock excitement. "Like a roller coaster!"

He glanced at Sam in hopes he'd earned a laugh, but the kid was staring at the quickly moving walls, completely oblivious to Dean's joke. Dean's face fell instantly, reminded that just because they were out of the hospital didn't mean it was all over.

When they reached the hospital doors, Sam was handed crutches for his ankle, Dean, the strong arm of Caleb for support.

"How're the ribs?" Caleb asked as they walked.

"Alright."

"And the chest?"

"Alright."

"Your head?"

"Alright!" Dean retorted, glancing nervously at John and Sam, a few paces behind them.

Caleb didn't say much after that until they got to the Impala. "You guys take care," he said. "Gotta go help Bobby finish up that case."

He nodded to Dean and John before walking over to Sam. He leaned down and hugged the kid awkwardly around the hard plastic crutches.

"What're we going to do with Sam?" Dean asked when they were back on the town's main road.

"Stay here for a bit, I guess. 'Till he finishes the crucial checkups. Same goes for you, Rumpel."

"But what if this doesn't go away? What if he's the percentage that doesn't regain hearing?"

John thought for a minute, glancing at Sam in the mirror.

"Then he adapts." John finally said. "We all do."

* * *

**I was going to be mean and leave it with Sam in the hospital freaking out, but then I remembered how much I hate writing hospitals... Thanks to everyone, as always. I'll try to update soon, maybe this'll hold you over. I appreciate any compliments, critique, etc. It's what keeps me going!**


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